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THE 



POPITICAL WORKS 



OP 



WORDSWORTH 



WITH ME'f OIR, EXPLANATORY NOTES, ETC 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W LOVELL CO^IPANl 
150 WoKTH Stkeet, corner Mission Place 



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CONTENTS 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



FACE. 

Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, 
composed in anticipation of leaving 

Scliooi 15 

Wnlteii in very early Youth 15 

All Evening Walk. Addressed to a Young 



Lady. 



Lines written while sailing in a Boat at 
Evening .... 21 

Remembrance of Collins, composed upon 
the Thames near Richmond 21 



PAGC 

Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pe- 
destrian Tour among the Alps .11 

Lines left upon a Seal in a Yew-tree, which 
stands near the Lake of Esthwaitc, on a 
desolate part of tiie Shore, commanding 
a beautiful Prospect 3 

Guilt and Sorrow ; or, Incidents upon Salis- 
bury Plain 3J 

The P.ORDEKEKs. A Tragedy 43 



POEMS REFERRING TO TIIE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



My heart leaps up wlien I behold 79 

Til a r.utterfly 79 

The Sparrow's Nest - 79 

Foresight 79 

Ciiaractcristics of a Child three Years old . 80 
Address to a Child, during a Boisterous 

Winter Evening 80 

The Mother's Return 81 

Alice F'eil ; or, Poverty 81 

LucyClray; or, Solitude 82 

We are Seven 83 

The Idle Shepherd-bovs ; or Dungeon- 

Ghyll Force. A Pastoral 83 

Anecdote for Fathers 84 



Rural Architecture 

The Pct-Lanib. A Pastoral 

To H - C. Six Years old 

Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth 
and strengthening ttie imagination in Boy- 
hood and early Youth 

The Longest Day. Adressed to my Daugh- 



The Norman Boy 8g 

The Poet's Dream. Sequel to the Norman 

Boy f;o 

The Westmoreland Girl- 
Part 1 9« 

Part II 93 



83 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



The Brothers 93 

Artegal and Elidure 98 

To a Butterfly 10 1 

A Farewell 102 

Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of 

Thomson's Castle of Indolence 103 

Louisa. After accompanying her on a 

Mountain Excursion 104 

Strage fits of passion have I known 104 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 104 

I travelled among unknown men 104 

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 104 

To — , 105 

Tbe Forsaken 105 

'Tis said, that some have died lor Ipve 105 



A Complaint • • '•* 

To — «o6 

Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 06 

How rich that forehead's calm expanse 106 

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mme 107 

fo— 07 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the 

Eve of a New Year 107 

The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian wo- 
man '08 

The Last of the Flock log 

Repentanee. A Pastoral Ballad no 

The affliction of Margaret— m 

The Cottager tf) her Infant « '» 

Maternal Grief IW 



CONTENTS. 



I'Ar.M. 

The Sailor's Mother 113 

The Childless Father 113 

The Emigrant Mother 114 

Viudracour and Julia 115 

The Idiot Boy 119 

Michael. A Pastoral Poem 123 

The Widow on Windermere Side 129 



PAG8. 

The Armenian Lady's Love 130 

Loving and Liking. Irregular Verses ad- 
dressed to a Child 132 

Farewell Lines 133 

The Redbreast. Suggested in a Westmore- 
land Cottage 133 

Her Eyes are Wild 134 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear.. 136 I To M. H 138 

To Joanna 136 i When, to the attractions of the busy world 139 

There is an Eminence, — of these our hills. 137 , Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags. 1381 base 140 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



A Morning Exercise 

A Flower Garden, at Coleorton Hall, Lei- 
cestershire 

A whirl-blast from behind the hill 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine 

The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral 

To a .Sexton , 

To the Daisy 

To the .same Flower 

The Green Linnet 

To a Sky-lark 

To the Small Celandine 

To the same Flower 

The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Bm- 
norie 

Who fancied what a pretty sight • 

The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly. 

Song for the Spinning Wheel. Founded 
upon a Belief prevalent among the Pas- 
toral Vales of Westmoreland . 

Hint from the Mountains for certain Politi- 
cal Pretenders 

On seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a 
H arp 

To a Lady, in answer to a request that 1 



I would write her a Poem upon some Draw- 
ings that she had made 01 Flowers in the 

Lsland of Madeira 151 

Glad sight wherever new with old 151 

The Contrast. The Parrot and the Wren. 151 

The Danish Boy. A Fragment 152 

Song for the Wandering Jew ^53 

Stray Pleasures T53 

The Pilgrim's Dream ; or, the Star and the 

Glow-worm 153 

The Poet and the Caged Turtledove 154 

A Wren's Nest 155 

Love lies Bleeding 155 

Companion to the foregoing 156 

Rural Illusions 156 

The Kitten and Falling Leaves 157 

Address to my Infant Daughter, on being 
reminded that she was a Month old, on 

t^iat day 158 

THE WAGONER 

Canto 1 159 

Canto II 192 

Canto III 164 

I Canto IV 165 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Tliere was a Boy . . 
To the Cuckoo. . . 

A Night-piece 

Aircy-force Valley. 
Yew-trees 



168 

168 

169 

169 

169 

Nutting 170 

The Simplon Pass 1 70 

She was a Phantom of delight 171 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 171 

Three years she grew in sun and shower... 171 

A slumber did my spirit seal 172 

1 wandered lonely as a cloud 1 72 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 172 

Power of Music •••• 172 



Star-gazers 173 

Written in March, while resting on the 

Bridge at the foot of Brother's Water. . . 174 
Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic 

live 1 74 

Beggars 174 

Sequel to the foregoing, composed many 

Years after 1 75 

Gypsies 175 

Ruth 176 

Resolution and Independence 178 

The Thorn 180 

Hart-leap Well i8« 

Part 1 183 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Part II iS4 

Song at the P'cast of Brougliam Castle, 
upon the Restoration of Lord Cliffoid, 
the Shepherd, to the Estates and Hon- 
ors of his Ancestors 1 86 

Lines, composed a few miles above Tmtern 
Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the 

WAc, during a Tour, July 13, 1798 1S7 

1 1 IS no Sjiiit who from heaven hath flown. 189 
t'lcnch Revolution, as it appeared to En- 
thusiasts at its Commencement. Re- 
printed from " The Friend " 190 

Y's, it was the Mountain Echo 190 

I () a Sky-lark 190 

Laodamia igi 

Dion 193 

The Pass of Kirkstone 195 

To Enterprise 196 

To — , on her I-'irst Ascent to the Summit of 

Helvellyn 197 

To a Young Lady, who had been reproach- 
ed for taking long walks m the Country.. 198 



PA OR. 

Water fowl 198 

View from the top of Black Comb 198 

Tiie Haunted Tree- To — 199 

The Triad i<^ 

The Wisliing-gate 202 

The Wishing-gate destroyed 202 

The Primrose of the Rock 203 

Presentiments 204 

Vernal Ode 205 

Devotional I ncitements 2r/) 

The Cuckoo-Clock 217 

To the Clouds 208 

Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Para- 
dise. 20q 

A Jewish Family 2(i.j 

On the Power of Sound 2 iq 

PETER BELL. -A Tale- 

Prologue ■2.\\ 

Part 1 216 

Part II 2;^o 

Part III 22a 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
PART I. 



Dedication. To — 226 

N- IS fret not at tlieir Convent's narrow- 
room 226 

Admonition 226 

"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall 

con" 226 

At Applethwaite, near Keswick 227 

Pehon and Ossa fiourish side by side 227 

There is a little unpretending Rill 227 

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat.. . . 227 
The fairest. Brightest, hues of ether fad. ..227 

Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture 228 

•' Why, Minstrel, these unluneful murmur 



mgs 



228 



Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 228 

To Sleep 228 

To Sleep 228 

To Sleep 229 

Tlie Wild Duck's Nest 229 

Written upon a Blank Leaf in "The Com- 
plete Angler 229 

To the Poet, John Dyer 229 

On the Detraction which followed the pub- 
lication of a certain Poem 230 



Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend... 

ToS. H 

Composed in one of the Valleys of West- 
moreland, on Easter Sunday 

Decay of Piety ' 

Composed on the eve of the Marriage of a 
Friend in the Vale cf Grasm.cre, 1812 

From the Italian of Michael Angelo 

From the Same 

From the Same. To the Supreme Being. 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind.. 

Methought I saw the footsteps of a Throne 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free.. 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 
must go ? 

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 
nigh 

The world is too much with us ; late and 
soon 

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found 

•' Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 
blind." 

To the Memory Raisley Calvert 



PART II 



Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 
frowned : 233 

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy 
rocks 234 

Tc B. R. Haydon 234 

From the dark chambers of detection freed. 234 



1 watch, and long have watched, with calm 

regret 234 

I heard (alas ! 'twas only in a dream). . ... 235 

Retirement 235 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 
s^'ell 235 



Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild. 234 I Mark the concentrated hazels that enclose, jjj 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Composed after a Journey across the Hain- 

bletoti Hills, Ytjrkshirc 235 

Those words were uttered as in pensive 

mood 236 

VVliile not a leaf seems faded, wliilc the 

fields 236 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 

bright 236 

Composed during a Storni 236 

To a Snow-drop 236 

Tf) the Lady Mary Lowther 237 

To Lady Beaiunont 237 

TluMt" is a pleasure in poetic paiiis 237 

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said 237 
Wlii-n haughty expectations prostrate lie.. 237 
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 

l"'>ir 238 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the sky ! 238 



Pagb. 

Even as a dragon 's eye that feels the stress 238 
The stars are mansions built by Nature's 

hand 238 

Desponding Father! mark this altered 

bough 238 

Captivity. — Mary Queen of Scots 239 

St. Catherine of Ledbury 23.) 

Though narrow be that old Man's cares and 

n<^ar.... 23-, 

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 239' 

Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks 239 

Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream 240 

Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 240 

Malham Cove 240 

Gordale 240 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 

3, 1S02 241 

Conclusion. To 241 



PART III. 



Though the bold wings of Poesy affect. . , . 
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming youth ! . . 
Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 

allow 

Recoilecfion of tiie Portrait of King Henry 

F^ighth, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge 

On the Death of His Majesty (George 

the Third)...., 

Fame tells of groves — from England far 

away— 

A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 

Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in 

North Wales 

To the I,ady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P., 
To the Torrent at the I)evirs Bridge, 

North Wales, 1S24 '. . 

In the Woods of Rydal 

When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 

While Anna's peers and early playmates 

tread 

To the Cuckoo 

To 

The Infant M M 

To , in her seventieth year 

To Rotha O 



A Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Clois- 
ters of Worcester Cathedral 

Romiii Antiquities discovered at Bishop- 
stone, Herefordshire 

Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the 
jnidc 

A TraHitioii of Oker Hill in Darley Dale, 
I )erbvsliire 

Filial Piety 

To the Author's Portrait 

Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a jilant. . 

To B. R. Haydon, on seeing his Picture of 



Napoleon Bonaparte on the Island of St. 

Helena 247 

A Port ! — He hatli put iiis heart to school 247 
The most alluring clouds that mount the 

sl«y ; 247 

On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington 

upon the field of Waterloo, by Haydon.. 247 

Composed on a May Morning, 1S38 247 

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 

trance 248 

To a Painter 248 

On the same Subject 248 

Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, unde- 

prest 248 

"Tis He whose yester-evening's high dis- 
dain 24S 

Oil what a Wreck ! how changed in mien 

and speech 249 

Intent on gathering wool from hedge and 

brake 249 

A Plea for Authors, May, 1838 249 

Valedictory Sonnet • 249 

To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, 

D.D., Master of Harrow School 250 

To the Planet Venus 250 

Wansfell ! this household has a favored 

lot 



.••••-. ; 250 

While beams of orient light shoot wide and 

high 250 

In my mind's eye a Temple like a cloud. . • 250 
On the projected Kendal and Windermere 

Railway :•••.•• ^5' 

Proud were ye. Mountains, when, in times 

of old 251 

At Furness Abbey 251 

At Furness Abbey 251 



CONTENTS. 



M.EMOKIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 



Page. 
tJ'epa.tu.e ?rom the Vale of Grasmere, 

August, ■'803 252 

At the Gnive of Burns, 1803. Seven Years 

after liis Death 252 

Tl>i)Ut;hts suggested tbe Day following, on 
the Banks of Niih, nta. toe Poet's Resi- 
dence , 253 

To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the 

Grave of their Father 254 

Ellen Irwin ; or the Braes of Kirtle 254 

To a Highland Girl 255 

Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow Glen 256 

Stepping Westward 256 



Pack. 

The Solitary Reaper 257 

Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch 

Awe 257 

Rob Roy's Grave 25S 

Sonnet. Composed at Castle 259 

Yarrow Unvisited 259 

Sonnet in the Pass of Killicranky 2(kj 

The Matron of Jedborough and her Hus- 
band 260 

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 

dale 261 

The Blind Highland Boy 261 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 18 14. 



The Brownie's Cell 2651 

Composed at Cora Liini, in sight of Wal- 
lace's Tower 266 1 



Effusion, in tlie Pleasure-ground on the 

banks of the Bran, near ])unkeld 266 

Yarrow Visited, September, 18 14 26>» 



POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND 

LIBERTY. 



PART I, 



Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, Au- 
gust, 1 802 2('>f) 

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind 269 

Composed near Calais, on the Road leading 

to Ardres, August 7, 1802 269 

I grieved for Bonaparte, with a vain 270 

Festivals have I seen that were not names. 270 
On the Extinction of the Venetian Repub- 
lic 270 

The King of Sweden 270 

To Toussaiiit L'Ouverture 271 

We had a female Passenger who came 271 

Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the 

day of landing 271 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood 271 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of 

Switzerland 271 

Written in London, September, 1S02 272 

Milton! thou should'st be living at this 
hour 272 



Great men have been among us ; hands 

that penned 272 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood.. 272 
When I have borne in memory what has 

tamed 272 

One might believe that natural miseiies.. . 273 
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 

bear • 273 

Those times strike monied worldlings with 



dismay. 



73 



England ! the time is come when ihou 

should'st wean 273 

When, lookmg on the present face of things 274 

To the Men of Keiit. October, 1803 274 

What if our numbers barely could defy 274 

Lines on the expected Invasion. 1803 274 

Anticipation. October, 1S03 274 

Another year !— another deadly blow ! 271, 

Ode. Who rises on the banks of Seine... 275 



PART II. 



On a celebrated Event in Ancient History 276 

Upon the same Event 276 

To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing 
of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave 

Trade 276 

A Prophecy. February, 1807 276 

Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake.. 277 

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 277 

Composed while tlie Author was engaged 



in Writing a Tract, occasioned by the 

Convention of Cintra 277 

Composed at the same Time and on the 

same occasion 277 

Hoffer 27S 

Advance— come forth from thy Tyrolean 

ground 278 

Feelings of tlie Tyrolcse 27^ 

Alas! what boots the long laboiiou? quest 278 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

And is it among rude untutored Dales. . . . 278 
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 

plain 279 

On the Final Submission of the Tyrolesc 279 

Hail, Zaragoza I 1{ with unwet eye 279 

Say, what IS Honor? — 'Tis the finest sense. 279 

'I'iie martial courage of a day is vain 279 

lirave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy 

flight 280 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 280 

Look now on tttat Adventurer who hath 

paid 280 

Is tliere a Power that can sustain and cheer 280 
Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor 

pen 280 

In due observance of an ancient rite 280 

Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of 

those Funerals 281 

The Oak of Guernica 281 

Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard — 281 

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind 2S1 

O'erweening Statesmen have full long re- 
lied 282 

The French and the Spanish Guerillas 282 




Pagb. 

Spanish Guerillas 282 

The power of Armies is a visible thing 282 

Here pause : the poet claims at least this 

praise 282 

The French Army in Russia 283 

On the same Occasion 283 

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 283 

The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim 2S4 
Now that all l-,earts are glad, all faces 

bright 284 

Ode, 1814. — Wiien the soft hand of sleep 

had closed the latch 284 

Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Dis- 
interment of the Remains of the Duke 

d'Enghlen 286 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 286 

Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski.. 2S6 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 280 

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples 

rung 287 

Ode, 1815. — Imagination — ne'er before con- 
tent 2S7 

Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed 
for a General Thanksgiving. 1S16 788 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820 



Dedication 

Fish-women. — On Landing at Calais 

Bruges 

Bruges 

Incident at Bruges 

After visiting the Field of Waterloo 

Between Namur and Liege 

Aix-la-Chapelle 

In the Cathedral at Cologne 

In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine 
Hymn for the Boatmen, as they approach 

the Rapids under the Castle of Heidel- 

L>erg 

The Source of the Danube 

On approaching the Staub-bach. Lauter- 

brunnen 

The Fall of the Aar— Handec 

Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of 

Thun 

Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons. 

After-thought 

Scene on the Lake of Brientz 

Engelberg, the Hill of Angels ". . . 

Our Lady of the .Snow 

Effusion, in Presence of the Painted Tower 

of Tell, at Altorf 

Xhc Town of Si»h wy tz 



On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches^" on the 

Top of the Pass of St. Gothard .*. 297 

Fort Fuentes 298 

The Church of San Salvador, seen from 

the Lake of Lugano 29S 

The Italin Itinerant, and the Swiss Goat- 
herd. — Part I 29^ 

Part II 299 

The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, 
in the Refectory of the Convent at Maria 

della Grazia — Milan 300 

The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 300 

The Three Cottage Girls 3"' 

The Column intended by Bonaparte for a 
Triumphant Edifice in Milan, now lying 

by the wayside in the Simplon Pass 302 

Stanzas, composed in the Simplon Pass.... 302 

Echo, upon the Gemmi 3t>3 

Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath 

Morning in the Vale of Chaniouny 303 

Elegiac Stanzas 304 

Sky-prospect — F'rom the Plain of France.. 305 
On being Stranded near the Harbor of 

Boulogne 305 

After landing— the Valley of Dover 305 

At Dover 3"6 

Desultory Stanzas 3u6 



CONTENTS. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1S37. 



Page. 

To H. C. Robinson 307 

Musings near Aquapennente 308 

Tlie Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 312 

At Rome 313 

At Rome. — Regrets. — In allusion to Nie- 

buhr and other modern Historians 313 

Continued 313 

Plea for the Historians 313 

At Rome 313 

Near Rome, m sight of St. Peter's 314 

At Albano 314 

Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 314 
From the Alban Hills, looking towards 

Rome 314 

Near tiie Lake of Thrasymene 3 >4 

Near the same Lake 315 

The Cuckoo at Laverna 315 

At the Convent of Camaldoli 316 



Pagb 

Continued • 317 

At the Eremite or Upi)er Convent of Ca- 
maldoli 317 

At Vallombrosa 317 

At Florence 318 

Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Ra- 
phael, in the Galleiy at Florencfe 318 

At Florence. — From ^lichael AngeJo 318 

At Florence. — From M. Anpe'o 318 

Among the Ruins of a Cor.vent in the 

Apennines 319 

In Lombardy 319 

After leaving Italy 319 

Continued 319 

Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 319 

The Pillar of Trajan 320 

The Egyptian Maid; ok, the Ro- 
mance OF THE Water Lily 321 



THE RIVER DUD DON. A SERIES OF SONNETS. 



To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 326 

Not envying Latin shades — if yet they 

throw 327 

Child of tha clouds! remote from every 

taint 327 

How shall I paint thee? — Be this naked 

stone 327 

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, 

take 327 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 

played 32S 

Flowers 32S 

"Change me, jome God, into that breath- 
ing rose !" ' 328 

What aspect bore the Man who roved or 

fled :... 32S 

The Stepping;-^tones 328 

The same Subject 329 

The Faery Chasm 329 

Hints for the Fancy 329 

Open Prospect 329 

O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and liis 

Cot 330 

From this deep chasm, where quivc wz, 

sunbeams play 330 

American Tradition 330 

Return 330 

Seathwaite Chapel 330 

Tributary Stream 331 



The Plain of Donnerdalc. 33 r 

Whence that low voice? — A whisper from 

the heart 331 

Tradition 331 

Sheep-washing 331 

The Resting-place 332 

Mcthinks 'twere no unprecedented feat.. . 332 

Return, Content! for fondly I pursued 332 

Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap.. 332 

Journey renewed 332 

No record tells of lance opposed to lance 332 
Who swerves from innocence, who makes 

divorce 333 

The KiKK OK Ui.i'HA to the pilgrim's eye. 333 

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep. 333 

Conclusion 333 

Aftei-thought 333 

THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE ; 
OK, The Fate ok the Noktons — 

Dedication 334 

Canto I 335 

Canto II 339 

Canto III 340 

Canto IV 344 

C^nto V 346 

Canto VI 348 

Canto VII 550 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 



PART I. 



•From THE-lNTRonucTioN of Christianity into Britain, to titk 
Consummation of the Papal Dominion. 



Introduction <. 354 I Uncertainty 3S5 

Conjectures 354 | Persecution 355 

Trepidation of the Druids... .... . .. 354 Recovery 355 

Dniidical Excommunication , 355 | Temptations from Roman Refinements 355 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

Dissensions 356 

Struggle of the Britons against the Barba- 
rians 356 

Saxon Conquest 356 

Monastery of old Bangor 356 

Casual Incitement 356 

Glad Tidings 357 

Paulinus 357 

Persuasion.' 357 

Conversion ... 357 

Apology 357 

Priniitivc Saxon Clergy 35S 

Other Influe.ices 358 

Seclusion 358 

Continued 358 

Reproof 359 

Saxnn Monasteries, and Lights and Shades 
of the Religion 359 



PAGB. 

Missions and Travels 359 

Alfred 3S9 

His Descendants 359 

Ir.fluence Abused 36a 

Danish Conquests 36a 

Canute 360 

The Norman Conquest 360 

Coldly we spake. The Saxons overpow- 
ered 360 

The Council of Clermont 361 

Crusades 361 

Richard 1 361 

An Interdict 361 

Papal Abuses 362 

Scene in Venice 362 

Papal Dominion 36* 



PART II.— To THE Close of the Troubles in the Reign of Chaklbs I. 



How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure . 362 
From false assumption rose, and fondly 

hail'd 362 

Cistertian Monastery 363 

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground. . .. 363 

Monks and Schoolmen 363 

Other Benefits 363 

Continued 363 

Crusaders 364 

As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest. 364 
Where long and deeply hath been fixed the 

root 364 

Transubstantiation 364 

The V.uidois 364 

Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain 

springs 365 

Waldenses 365 

Archbishop Chichely to Henry V 365 

Wars of York and Lancaster 36<; 

WichfTe.... ,. 365 

Corruption of the higher Clergy 366 

Al)use of Monastic Power ". 366 

Ml mastic Voluptuousness 366 

Dissolution of the Monasteries 366 

The same Subject 366 

Continued 367 



Saints 367 

The Virgin 307 

A-pclogy 367 

Imaginative Regrets 367 

Reflections 368 

Translation of the Bible 368 

The Point at issue 368 

Edward VI 368 

Edward signing the Warrant for the Exe- 
cution of Joan of Kent 368 

Revival of Popery 369 

Latimer and Ridley 369 

Cranmer 369 

General View of the Troubles of the Ref- 
ormation 369 

English Reformers in Exile . . - , 370 

Elizabeth 370 

Eminent Reformers 370 

The same 370 

Distractions 370 

Gunpowder Plot 371 

Illustration. The Jung-Frau and the Fall 

of the Rhine near Schaffhausen 371 

Troubles of Charles the First 371 

Laud 371 

Afflictions of England 371 



PART III.— From the Rhstoration to the Present Time. 



I saw tl figure of a lovely Maid 372 

I'atriotic Sympathies 372 

Cha Iv.. the Second 372 

Laf itu .inarianiim 372 

Walton's Book of Lives 372 

Clerical Integrity . . 373 

Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters.. . 373 

Acquittal of the Bishops 373 



Willijm the Third. 



373 



Db.igations of Civil to Religious Liberty.. 373 
^ache verel 37^ 



Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold de- 
sign 374 

Aspects of Christianity in America — 

I. The Pilgrim Fathers 374 

11. Continued 374 

III. Concluded. — American Episcopacy. 375 
Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep. 375 

Places of Worship 375 

Pastorr\l Character ,., 375 

The Liturgy .,,, 375 

Baptism I'fft 



rOTTTENTS. 



Page. 

Sponsors 376 

Catechising <, 376 

Confirmation 37^ 

Confirmation— Continued •■ 376 

Saciament 377 

Ihe Marriage Ceremowiy , 377 

Thanksgiving after Childbirth 377 

Visitation of' the Sick.. 377 

The Commination Service 377 

Forms of Prayer at Sea 378 

Funeral Service 37S 

Rural Ceremony 378 

Regrets 378 

Mutability 378 



Page. 

Old Abbeys 379 

Emigrant French Clergy . 3/9 

Congratulation 37 > 

New Churches 379 

Church to be Erected 37'J 

Continued 380 

New Church-yard 380 

Cathedrals, &c 380 

Inside of King's College Chapel, Cam- 
bridge 3S0 

The Same 380 

Continued 381 

Ejaculation 381 

Conclusion 381 



YARROW . EVIi>. TED, AND O x HER POEMS. 



Composed (two excepted) during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English 
Border, in the Autumn of 1831. 



The gallant Youth, who may have gained. 3S2 
On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from 

Abbotsfnnl, for N iples 383 

A Place tf Burial in the South of Scot- 
land 383 

On the Si^lu of a Manse in the South of 

Scotland 384 

Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a 

Storm 3S4 

The Trosachs 3S4 

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or 

mute 3S4 

Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive 384 

Eagles. Composed at Dunollie Castle in 

the Bay of Oban 385 

In the Sound of Mull 3S1; 

Suggested at Tyndruni in a Storm 385 

The Earl of Breadalbane's Ruined Man- 
sion, and Family Burial-Place, near 
Killin.. 3S5 



" Rest and be Thankful !" At the head of 

Glencroe 386 

Highland Hut , 386 

The Highland Broach 386 

The Brownie 387 

To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. 

Composed at Loch Lomond 3S7 

Bothwell Castle. Passed unseen, on ac- 
count of stormy weather 388 

Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den, at 

Hamilton Palace 388 

The Avon. A Feeder of the Annan 38,8 

Suggested by a View from an Eminence in 

Inglewood Forest 3SS 

Hart's-horn Tree, near Penrith 3S9 

I'ancy and Tradition 389 

Countess' Pillar 389 

Roman Antiquities. From the Reman 

Station at Old Penrith -^Sg 

Apology, for the foregoing Poems 389 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 



Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose . . 390 
On a high Part of the Coast of Cumberland 390 

I'y the Sea-side 39 1 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 391 

By the Side of Rydal Mere 392 

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere 392 
The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned 
hill 393 



The sun has long been set 3 1 < 

Composed upon an Evening of extraor(' - 

nary Splendor and Beauty • 3 > f 

Composed by the Sea-shore 3 ) » 

Tile Crescent-moon, the Star f>f Love...-. 395 
To the Mof>n. Composed by the Sea-side, 

— on the Coast of Cumberland 39? 

To the Moon.— Rydal 39* 



POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE 
SUMMER OF 1833. 

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown 397 I They called Thee Merry England in old 

Why should the Enthusiast, journeying time : 397 

through this Isle 397 1 Tu the River GreU neAi Ke^iwick... 39^ 



10 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

To the River Derwent 398 

In SiglU of the Town of Cockermouth 398 

Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth 

Castle 398 

Wun's Well, lingliam 398 

I'o a Friend. On the Banks of the Der- 
went 399 

Mary Queen of Scots. Landing at the 

Mouth of the Derwent, Workington.... 399 
Stanzas suggested in a Steam-boat off Saint 
Bees' Heads, on tl»e Coast of Cumber- 
land 399 

[11 the Channel, between the Coast of Cum- 
berland and the Isle of Man 402 

At Sea off the Isle of Man 402 

Desire we pai-t Illusions to recall ? 402 

On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man.... 402 

By the Sea-shore, Isle 01 Man 402 

Isle of Man 403 

Isle of Man 403 

By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the 

Author) 403 

At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to 

be written by a Friend). 403 

Tyn wald Hill 404 

Despond who will — 1 heard a voice exclaim 404 
In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. During 

an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17 404 

On tlie Frith of Clyde. In a .Steam-boat. . 404 

On revisiting Dunolly Castle 404 

The Dunolly Eagle 404 



Page. 
Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's 

Ossian 405 

Cave of Staff a 405 

Cave of Staffa. After the Crowd had de- 
parted 406 

Cave of Staffa 406 

Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the 

Entrance of the Cave 406 

lona 4<->6 

lona. Upon Landing 407 

The Black Stones of lona 407 

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columbia's 

Cell 407 

Greenock 407 

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with 

meet pride 407 

The River Eden, Cumberland 40S 

Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Noliekens), 
in Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the 

Banks of the Eden 408 

Suggested by the foregoing 40S 

Nunnery 408 

Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways 409 

The Monument commonly called Long 
Meg and her Daughters, near the river 

Eden - 4o<) 

Lowlher ••• 409 

To the Earl of Lonsdale 409 

The Somnambulist 409 

To Cordelia M — , Hallste.ids, Ullswater. 411 
Most sweet it is with un uplifted eyes 411 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTIONS. 



Expostulation and Reply 412 

The Tables Turned. An evening Scene on 

the same Subject 412 

Lines written in Early Spring 413 

A. Character 413 

fo my Sister .. 413 

Simon Lee, the old Huntsman ; with an 

Incident in which he was concerned 414 

Written in Germany, on one of the coldest 

Days of the Ccntuiy 415 

A Poet's Epitaph 4i5 

To the Dai^y 416 

Matthew 416 

The two April Mornings 417 

The Fountain. A Conversation 417 

Personal Talk 418 

To the Spade of a Friend. (An Agricultu- 
rist.) Composed while we were laboring 

toi^ether in his Pleasure ground 419 

A Night Thought. 420 

Incident characteristu of a favorite Dog. .. 420 
Tribute to tlie Memory of the same Dog.. 420 

Fidelity 42 r 

Ode to Duty 42 1 

Character of the Happy Warrior 422 



The Force of Prayer ; or, the Founding of 

Bolton Priory. A Tradition 423 

A Fact, and an Imagination ; or^ Canute 

and Alfred, on the Sea-shore 424 

A little onward lend thy guiding hand 425 

Ode to Lycoris - 425 

To the Same 426 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 427 

Upon the same occasion c. ...... .. 427 

Memory • .. 428 

This Lawn, a carpet all alive. < 428 

Humanity • <>•.. 428 

Thought on the Seasons 430 

To — , upon the Birth of her First-born 

Child, March, 1833... 430 

The Warning. A Sequel to the foregomg 430 

If this great world of joy and pain 433 

The Laborer's Noon-day Hyinn... o.... 433 

Ode composed on May Morning 433 

To May • 434 

Lines suggested by a Portrait from the 

Pencil of F. Stone .. 43$ 

The foregoing Subject resumed 437 

S11 fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive .... 43; 
Upon seeing a colored Drawing of the Bird 

of Paradise in an Album. 43! 



CONTENTS. 



tl 



SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER 



Page. 
Composed after reading a Newspaper of 

the Day 438 

Upon the late General Fast. March 1832. 438 

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and F'raud 439 

Blest Statesman He, wliose Mind's uiiself- 

isli will 439 

In allusion to various recent Histories and 

Notices of the Frencli Revolution 439 

Contuiued 439 

Concluded 439 



Pag* 
Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark 

book 44(1 

To tile Pennsyl vanians 44a 

At Bologna, in Rementbrance of the late 

Insurrections, 1837 44<i 

Continued .... 440 

Concluded 441 

Young England — what is then become of 

Old 441 

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 441 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 



Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle 

(on the Road from the South) 442 

Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law 442 

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 442 
\% Death, when evil against good has fought 442 

Not to the object specially designed , 443 

Ye blood of conscience — Spectres! that 

frequent 443 

Before the world had past her time of youth 443 



Fit retribution, by the moral code 443 

Though to give timely warning and deter. . 443 
Our bodily life, some plead, that life the 

shrine 443 

Ah, think how one compelled for life to 

abide 444 

See the Condemned alone within his cell.. 444 

Conclusion 444 

Apology 444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Epistie to Sir George Rowland Beaumont, 
Bart. From the South-West Coast of 

Cumberland. — 181 1 445 

Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty 

Years after its Composition 448 

Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase . 449 

Liberty. (Sequel to the above.) [Address- 
ed to a Friend : the Gold and Silver 
Fishes having been removed to a Pool in 
the Pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.].. 450 

Poor Robin 452 

The Gleaner. (Suggested by a Picture.).. 452 

To d Redbreast — (in Sickness.) 452 

Floating Island 453 

Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 453 
To the Lady Fleming, on seeing the Foun- 
dation preparing for the Erection of Ry- 
dal Chapel, Westmoreland 454 



On the same Occasion n ••..«• 45; 

The Horn of Egremont Castle 455 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill. A true 

Story 456 

Prelude, prefixed to the Volume entitled 

'* Poems chiefly of Early and Late 

Years." ._ 458 

To a Child. Written in her Album 458 

Lines written in the Album of the Countess 

of l^onsdale. Nov. 5, 1834 45Q 

Grace Darling 460 

The Russian Fugitive — 

Part 1 461 

Part II 462 

Part III 463 

Part IV 464 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of 
Sir George Beaumont, Bart. Leicester- 
shire 465 

In a Garden of the Same 465 

Written at the Request of Sir George 
Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an 
Urn, placed by him at the Termination 
of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same 

Grounds 466 

For a Seat in the Groves ot Coleorton 466 

Written with a Pciicil upon a biuiic \w the 



Wall of the House (an Out-house), on 
the Island at Grasmere .... 466 

Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on 
the side of the Mountain of Black Comb 467 

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, 
the largest of a Heap lying near a desert- 
ed Quarry upon one of the Islands at 
Rydal 467 

In these fair vales hath many a Tree 468 

The massy Ways, carried across these 
heights , 441 



12 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Inscriptions supposed to be found in and 

near a Hermit's Cell 46S 

I. Hopes wliat are they ? — Beads of 

morning 468 

II. Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er 

thou be.... 468 

III. Hast thou seen with flash inces- 
sant 469 



•■* Pagb. 
IV. Near the Spring of the Hermit- 
age 469 

V. Not seldom, clad in radiant vest.. 469 
For the Spot where the Hermitaue stood 
on St. Herbert's Island, Der- 

went-water 460 

On the Banks of a Rocky Stream 470 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER MODERNIZED. 



The Prioress' Tale 47° I Troilus and Cresida . 

The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 474 | 



478 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF AGE. 



The Old Cumberland Beggar 480 

The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 483 

The Small Celandine * 484 



The Two Thieves ; or, the Last Stage of 

Avarice 4S5 

Animal Tranquillity and Decay 486 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



Epitaphs translated from Chiabrer.i — 

Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let 

the air 486 

Pefhaps some needful service of the 

State 486 

O Thou who movest onward with a 

mind 487 

Tiiere never breathed a man who, when 

his life 487 

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 487 

Destined to war from very infancy 4S8 

O flower of all that springs from gentle 

blood : 488 

Not without heavy grief of heart did 

He 488 

Pause, courteous Spirit ! Balbi suppli- 
cates 488 

By a blest Husband guided, Mary came. . 489 
Six months to six years added he remained 489 

Cenotaph 489 

Eijitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, 

Westmoreland 489 

Address to the, Scholars of the Village 

School of — 489 

Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of 
Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir 

George Beaumont 490 

To the Daisy • 49» 



Elegiac Verses, in memory of my Brother, 
John Wordsworth, Commander of the 
E. I. Company's Ship the Earl of Aber- 
gavenny, in which he v^erished by Ca'a'" - 
itous Shij)wreck, Feb. 6, 1S05 ,', '; ,- 

Lines composed at Grasmere, during a 
Walk one Evening, after a stormy Day, 
the Author having just read m a News- 
paper that the Dissolution of Mr. Fox j 
was hourly expected - ... 493 

Invocation to the Earth. February, 1816.. 493 

Lines written on a Blank Leaf in a Copy 
of the Author's Poem '• The Excursion," 
upon hearing of the Death of the late 
Vicar of Kendal 194 

Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. H. 
B., upon tlie Death of his Sister-iivlaw. . 494 

Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Cole- 
orton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir G. H. 
Beaumont, Hart 494 

Written after the Death of Charles Lamb.. 495 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of 
James Hogg 497 

Inscription for a Monument in Croslhwaite 
Church, in the Vale of Keswick 498 

ODE. Intimations of Immurtauty 
FKOM Recollections ok Early 
Chiluhooc... > 499 



'J hey Vairic^d WordsvTorl.h on ''atvr^ay, .vprii ">,! (I860), in 
Grasmere Churchyard. ''hai* is one oa the sv;eetest spots in all the 
world, the little dotted plot lying low, with its old grey chLirch, in 
.the arms o.f the green hiljbs, within Its half-circular road, breasted by 
its beautiful river and shaded by its spreading yews. . .']he grave is 
where th*:- poet himself wished it to be. . , It is in the sweetest corner 
of that sweet spot. A gravel path goes round it, and the low wall of 
the churchyard is VL-ry close at its foot a,nd at its side. ?rhen the 
day dawns it is the first "d^:(^. in the dale to know it, and being out of 
the shadow of the church, it is the last to parley with thv-^ setting 
sun. And i:-he beautiful river, the ""^otha, whlc].i babbles and laughs 
before it comes to this cornLr, anri again laughs 3.r\(S babbits beyond it, 
flovfs deep and silent and with a solemn hush as it goes slowly under 
the quiL-^t place o.':' the poet^s rest. 



I 



CONTENTS. 



^3 



THE, PRELUDE OR GROWTH OF^ POET'S MIND. 



AN AUTOUIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 



Pagh. 

Advertisement 501 

Book I. Introduction. Childhood and 

School-time 501 

11. School-time (continued). .. . 509 

III. Residence at Cambridge 514 

IV. Summer Vacation . 522 

V. Books 527 

VI. Cambridge and tiie Alps 535 

VI L Residence ni London 544 

Vill. Retrospect.— Love of Nature 

leading to t*ove of Man. . 553 



Pagb. 

Book IX. Residence in France 561 

X. Residence in France (contin- 
ued) 568 

XI. Residence in France (con- 
cluded) 575 

XII. Imagination and Taotj, how 

impaired and restored.. . 58/ 

XIII. Imagination and Taste, how 
inipa.,cd and restored 

Yiv r <""'''"'^^^^ 585 

XIV. Conclusion 589 



THE EXCURSION. 



Dedication — Preface to the Edition of 1814 595 

Book I. The Wanderer 598 

II. The Solitary 610 

III. Despondency 621 

IV. Despondency Corrected 633 

V. The Pastor 649 

VI. The Church-yard among the 

Mouutaius 66/ 



Book VII. The Church-yard among the 

Mountains (continued) 676 

VIII. The Parsonage 690 

IX. Discourse of the Wandersr, 
and an Evening Visit to the 
Lake 697 



POEMS 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Of the Poems in this class, "The Evening Walk " and " Descriptive Sketches'*' 
were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some alterations that were chiefly mad« 
very ^oon after their publication. 

This notice, which was written some tune ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, "Descriptive 
Sketches," as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to 
prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of Juvenile Pieces. 
1836. 

Is cropping audibly his later meal : 

Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to 

steal 
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starfcss 

sky, 
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony. 
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
That grief for which the senses still supply 
Fresh food ; for only then, when memory 
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! re- 
strain 
Those busy cares that would allay my pain ; 
Oh ! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
The officious touch that makes me droop 
again. 



EXTRACT 

FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COM- 
POSED IN ANTICIPATION OF 
LEAVING SCHOOL. 

Dear native regions, I foretell, 
From what I feel at this farewell, 
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
If in that hour a single tie 
Survive of local sympathy, 
My soul will cast the backward view, 
The longing look alone on you. 

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest 
Far in the regions of the west. 
Though to the vale no parting beam 
Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
A lingering light he fonJly throws 
On the dear hills where first he rose. 
1786. 



WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. 

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass 
The hor*i t alone, seen dimly as 1 pass, 



III. 



AN EVENING WALK. 

addressed to a YOUNG LADY. 

General .Sketch of tlie Lakes — Author's re- 
gret of his Youth which was passed 
amongst' them — Short description of 
Noon — Cascade — Noon-tide Retreat — 
Precipice and sloping Lights — Face of 
Nature as the Sun declines — Mountain- 
farm, and the Cock — Slate-quarry— .Sun- 
set — Superstition of the Country con- 
nected with that moment— Swans—Fe 



i6 



FORMS IVRITl EN IN YOUTH. 



male Beggar — Twilight-sounds — Western 
Liglits— -Spirits — Night— Moonlight — 
Hope — Nighl-suunds — Conclusion. 

Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to 

rove 
Through bare gray dell, high wood, and 

pastoral cove ; 
Where Derwcnt rests, and listens to the 

roar 
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lin- 

dore ; 
Where peace to Grasmcre's lonely island 

leads, 
To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald 

meads ; 
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cot- 

taged grounds, 
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland 

bounds ; 
Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander 

sleeps 
'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled 

steeps ; 
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's 

shore. 
And memory of departed pleasures, more. 

Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy 
child. 
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
The spirit sought not then, in cherished 

sadness, 
A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. 
In youth's keen eye the livelong day was 

bright. 
The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 
Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill 
Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moon- 
light hill. 

In thoughtless gayety I coursed the plain, 
And hope itself was all I knew of pain ; 
For then, the inexperienced heart would 

beat 
At times, while young Content forsook her 

seat. 
And wild Impatience, pointing upv/ard, 

showed, 
Through passes yet unreached, a brighter 

road. 
Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
Depicted in the dial's moral round ; 1 

Hope with reflection blends her socia-i rays 
To gild the total tablet of his days ; 
Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, 
He knows but from its shade the present 

hour. 



But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle painf 
To slujw what pleasures yet to me remain, 
Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant car, 
The history of a poet's evening hear.'' 

When, in the south, the wan noon, brood- 
ing still. 
Breathed a pale steam around the glaring 

hill. 
And shades of deep-embattled iouds were 

seen, 
Spotting the northern cliffs with lights be- 
tween ; 
When crowding cattle, checked by rails that 

make 
A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, 
Lasiied the cool water witli their restless 

tails, 
Or from iiigh points of rock looked out tor 

fanning gales ; 
When school-boys stretched their length 

upon the green ; 
And round the broad-spread oak, a glhn- 

mering scene, 
In the rough fern-clad park the h.crded deer 
Shook \!v\Q^ still-twinkling tail and glancing 

ear ; 
Vvhen horses in the sunburnt intake * 

stood, 
And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 
Or tracked tlic passenger, in mute distress, 
With forward neck the closing gate to 

press — 
Then, while I wandered where the huddling 

rill 
Brightens with water-breaks the hollow 

■ ghyll 1 
As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. 
While thick above the rill the branches 

close; 
In rocky basin its wild waves repose, 
Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, 
Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds 

between ; 
And its own twilight softens the whole 

scene. 
Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine 
On withered briars that o'er the crags re' 

cline ; 



* The word l7ttake is local, and signifies a 
niountain-inclnsure. 

t Cihyll is also, I believe, a term confined to 
this country : ghyll, and dingle, have the sant 
meaning. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



17 



Save where, with sparkling foam, a small 

cascade 
Illi'inines, from within, the leafy shade ; 
Beyond, along the vista of the brook. 
Where antique roots its bustling course 

overlook, 
The eye reposes on a secret bridge 
Half gray, half shagged with ivy to its 

ridge ; 
There, bending o'er the stream, the listless 

swain 
Lingers behind his disappearing wain. 
—Did Sabine grace adorn my hving line, 
Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield 

to thine ! 
Never shall ruthless minister of death 
'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel un- 

sheath ; 
No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with 

tiowers, 
No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers ; 
The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove 
A more benignant sacrifice approve — 
A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 
Of happy wisdom, meditating good, 
Beholds, of all from her high powers re- 
quired, 
Much (.lone, and much designed, and more 

desired, — 
Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth re- 
fined, 
Fntire affection for all human kind. 

Dear Brook, farewell ! To-morrow's 

noon again 
Shall lude me, wooing long thy wildwood 

strain ; 
But now the sun has gained his western 

road. 
And eve's mild hour invites my steps 

abroad. 

Wliile, near the midway cliff, the silvered 

kite 
In many a whistling circle wheels her flight ; 
Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, 

apace 
Travel along the precipice's base ; 
Clieering its naked waste of scattered stone. 
By lichens gray, and scanty moss, o'ergrown ; 
Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's 

beard ; 
And restless stone-chat, all day long, is 

heard. 

How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
The spacious landscape change in form and 
huel 



Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood ; 
There, objects, by the searching beams be- 
trayed, 
Come forth, and here retire in purple shade ; 
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage 

white. 
Soften tlieir glare before the mellow light ; 
The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage 

wide 
Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house 

hide, 
Shed from their sides, that face the sun's 

slant beam. 
Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous 

stream ; 
Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 
Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving 

shroud ; [firt^j 

The shepherd, all involved in wreaths ot 
Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is 

lost entire. 

Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, 
A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink , 
There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage 

sleep, 
And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy 

deep : 
And now, on every side, the surface breaks 
Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening 

streaks ; 
Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright 
With tliousand thousand twinkling points of 

light; 
There, waves that, hardly weltering, die 

away. 
Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray ; 
And now the whole wide lake in deep repose 
I shushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, 
Save where, along the shady western marge, 
Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal 

barge. 
Their panniered train a group of potters 

goad. 
Winding from side to side up the deep road ; 
The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge 
S]Aot,down the headlong path darts with his 

sledge ; 
Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse 

illume 
Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," 

and broom ; 
While the sharp slope the slackened team 

confounds, 
Downward the • ponderous timbi.r wain ri- 

sounds : 



i8 



POEMS WRITTEN IM YOUTH. 



in foamy breaks the ril!, with merry song, 

Dashed o'er the rough rock, hghtly leaps 
along ; 

From lonesome chapel at the mountain's 
feet, 

Three humble bells their rustic chime re- 
peat ; 

Sjunds from the water-side the hammered 
boat ; 

A.nd blasted quarry thunders, heard remote 1 

Even here, amid the sweep of endless 

woods, 
Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling 

floods. 
Not undelightful are the simplest charms, 
Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. 

Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, 

Pride of his sister-wives, tlie monarch stalks ; 

^pur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his 
tread ; 

A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. 

Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball 
hurls 

Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 

On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion 
throat, 

Threatened by faintly-answering farms re- 
mote: 

Again with his shrill voice the mountain 
rings. 

While, flapped with conscious pride, resound 
his wings ! 

Where, mixed with graceful birch, the 

sombrous pine 
And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; 
] love to mark tlic cjuarry's moving trains. 
Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and 

numerous wains : 
llovv busy all the enormous hive within, 
Wliile Echo dallies with its various din ! 
Some (hear you not their chisels' clhiking 

sound ?) 
Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound : 
Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, 
O'erwalk the slender plank from side to 

side : 
These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless 

ring, 
In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. 

Just where a c\oud above the mountain 
rears 
An ed-^e of flame, the broadening sun ap- 
pears : 



A long blue bar its aegis orb divides, 

And breaks the spreading of its golden tides : 

And now that orb has touched the puiiple 

steep 
Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 
'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the clitts 

aspire, 
With towers and woods, a '• prospect all on 

fire : " 
While coves and secret hollows, through a 

ray 
Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
Each slip of lawn tlie broken rocks between 
Shines in the light with more than earthly 

green : 
Deep yellow beams the scattered stems 

illume. 
Far in the level forest's central gloom : 
Waving his hat, tiie shepherd, from the vale, 
Directs his winding dog tlie cliffs to scale, — 
Tlie dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering 

rocks, 
Hunts, where his master points, the inter 

ceptcd flocks. 
Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance 

shoots 
On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted 

roots ; 
Tlie druid-stones a brightened ring unfold ; 
And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold ; 
Sunk to a curve, tlie day-stur lessens still. 
Gives (.ne bright glance, and drops behind 

the hill* 

In these secluded vales, if village fame. 
Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim ; 
When up tlie hills, as now, retired the light. 
Strange apparitions mocked the sliepherd's 

sight. 

The form appears of one that spurs his 

steed 
Midway along the hill with desperate speed ; 
Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while 

all 
Attend, at every stretrh, his headlong fall. 
Anon, appears a brave^ a gorgeous show 
Of htjrsemcn-shadovvs moving to and fro ; 
At intervals imperial banners stream, 
And now the van reflects the solar beam ; 
The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen 

gleam. [below, 

While silent stands the admiring crowd 
Silent the visionary warriors go, 
Winding in ordered jiomp their upward way 
Till the last banner of the long array 



♦From Thomson. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



19 



Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 
Of splendor — save the beacon's spiry head 
Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. 

Now^, while the solemn evening shadows 
sail, 
On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale ; 
^nd, fronting the bright west, yon oak en- 
twines 
Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger 

lines ; 
'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
Where, winding on along some secret bay, 
The swan uplifts his cliest, and backward 

flings 
His neck, a varying arch, between his tow- 
ering wings : 
The eye that marks the gliding creature sees 
How graceful pride can be, and how majes- 
tic, ease. 
While tender cares and mild domestic loves 
With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, 
The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
And lier brown little-ones around her leads, 
Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, 
Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; 
Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
Close by her mantling wings' embraces 
prest. 

Long may they float upon this flood 

serene ; 
Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and 

green, 
Where leafy shades fence off the blustering 

gale, 
And Ijreathes in peace the lily of the vale ! 
Yon isle, which feels not even the milk- 
maid's feet. 
Yet hears her song, " by distance made more 

sweet,'' 
Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like 

bower ; 
Crcen water-rushes overspread the floor; 
Long grass and willows form the woven 

wall, 
And swings above the roof the poplar tall. 
Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk. 
They crush with broad black feet their 

flowery walk ; 
Or, from the neighboring water, hear at 

morn 
The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow 

Uorn; 



Involve their serpent-necks in changefu' 

rings. 
Rolled wantonly between their slipjjery 

wings. 
Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, 
Force half upon the wave their cumbrous 

flight. 

Fair swan ! by all a mother's joys ca- 

ressed, 
Haply some wretch has eyed, and called 

thee blessed ; 
When with her infants, from some shady 

seat 
By the lake's edge, she rose — to face the 

noon-tide heat ; 
Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 
A few short steps to totter with their load. 

I see her now, denied to lay her head, 
On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built 

shed. 
Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry. 
By pointing to the gliding moon on iiigh. 
— When low-hung clouds each star of sum- 
mer liide. 
And tireless are the valleys far and wide. 
Where the brook brawls along the public 

road 
Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching 

broad. 
Oft has she taught them on her lap to lav 
The shining glow-worm ; or, in heedless 

play. 
Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted ; 
While others, not unseen, are free to shed 
Green unmolested light upon their mossy 
bed. 

Oh ! when the sleety showers her path 

assail. 
And like a torrent roars the headstrong 

gale; 
No more her breath can thaw their fingers 

cold, 
Their frozen arms her neck no more caii 

fold ; 
Weak roof a cowering form two babes to 

shield, 
And faint the Are a dying heart can yield ! 
Press the sad kiss, fond mother ! vainly fears 
Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its 

tears ; 
No tears can chill them, and no bosom 

warms. 
Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in 

thine arms ! 



20 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Sweet are the sounds tliat mingle from 

afar, 
Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding 

star, 
Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling 

sedge, 
And feeding pike starts from the water's 

edge, 
Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and 

bill 
\Vetting, that drip upon the water still ; 
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
Blends with the solemn coloring of night ; 
'Mid groves of clouds that crest the moun- 
tain's brow, 
And round the west's proud lodge their 

sliadows throw, 
Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 
The lialf-secn form of Twilight roams 

astray ; 
Shedding, tlirough paly loop-holes mild and 

small. 
Gleams tliat upon the lake's still bosom fall ; 
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres 

pale 
Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 
With .restless interchange at once the bright 
Wins on the sliade, the shade u]X)n the light. 
No favored eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
( Jn lovelier spectacle in fairy days ; 
When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 
I'.rushing with lucid wands the water's face; 
While music, stealing round the glimmering 

deeps, 
Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted 

steeps. 
— The lights are vanished from the watery 

plains : 
No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
ITnheeded night has overcome the vales : 
On the dark earth the wearied vision fails ; 
The latest lingerer of the forest train. 
The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; 
Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no 

more, 
Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers 

hoar ; 
And, towering from the sullen dark-brown 

mere. 
Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps ap- 
pear. 
—Now o'er the soothed accordant heart v.e 

feel 
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 



And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil 

mind. 
Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay I 
Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away ; 
Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; 
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear re 

tains. 

The bird, who ceased, with fading light. 

to thread 
Silent the hedge or streamy rivulet's bed. 
From his gray reappearing tower shall soon 
Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, 
While with a hoary light she frosts the 

ground, 
And pours a deeper blue to .(Ether's bound; 
Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds 

to fold 
In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 

Above yon eastern hill, where darkness 
broods 

O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and 
woods ; 

Where but a mass of shade the sight can 
trace. 

Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely 
face: 

Across the gloomy valley flings her light, 

Far to the western slopes wit^i hamlets 
white ; 

And gives, where woods the checkered up- 
land strew. 

To the green corn of sumn^er, autumn's hue. 

Thus Hope, first pouring from iier blessed 

horn 
Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own 

morn, 
'Till higlicr mounted, strives in vain to 

cheer 
The weary hills, imjKTvious, blackening 

near ; [while 

Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the 
On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 

Even now she decks for me a distant 
scene, 

(For dark and broad the gulf of time be- 
tween) 

Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 

(Sole bourn, sole' wish, sole object of my 
way ; 

How fair its lawns and sheltering woods ap- 
pear ! 

How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mini 
ear!) 



POEMS WRITTEN LV YOUTH. 



21 



Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall 

rise, 
'Till our small share of hardly-paininj; sighs 
(For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of 

death. 

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith 
gains, 
And,'rimy without speck, extend the plains : 
The deepest cleft the mountain's front dis- 
plays [ra} s ; 
Scarce hides a shadow from her searching 
From tiie dark-blue faint silvery threads 

divide 
The hills, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
Time softly treads ; throughout the land- 
scape breathes 
A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths 
Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood 
Steal down the hill, and spread along the 
flood. 

The song of mountain-streams, unheard 
by day, [way. 

Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward 
Air listens, like the sleeping v/ater, still, 
To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from 

sleep, 
The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, 
The boat's first motion — made with dashing 

oar; 
Sound of closed %i'^&^ across the water borne, 
Hurrying the timid hsje through rustling 

corn ; 
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl ; 
.^nd at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
The distant forge's swinging thump pro- 
found; 
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 

1787-9. 

♦ 

IV. 

LINES 

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT 
EVENING. 

How richly glows the water's breast 
Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
While, facing thus the crimson west. 
The boat her silent course pursues ! 
And see how dark the backward stream ! 
A little moment past so smiling ! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
l)ome other loiterers beguiling. 



Such views the youthful Mard allure: 
But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colors shall endure 
Till peice go with him to the tomb. 
— .And let liim nurse his fond deceit, 
And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
Thougli grief and pain may come to-mor 
row.-* 
17S9. 



REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. 

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR 
RICHMOND. 

Glide gently, thus forever glide, 

O Thames that other bards may see 

As lovely visions by thy side 

As now, fair river ! come to me. 

O glide, fair stream ! forever so, 

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 

Till all our minds forever flow 

As thy deep waters now are flcwing. 

Vain thought ! — Yet be as now thou art, 
That in thy waters may be seen 
The image of a poet's heart, 
How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
Such as did once the Poet bless. 
Who murmuring here a later •* ditty^ 
Could find no refuge from distress 
But in the milder grief of pity. 

Now let us, as we float along, 
For him suspend the dashing oar; 
And pray thar never child of song 
May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
How calm ! how still! the only sound, 
The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
— The evening darkness gathers round 
By virtue's holiest Powers attended 
17S9. 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 

TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR 
AMONG THE ALPS. 

TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
FELLOW OF ST. jOIIX'S COLLEGE, CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

Dear Sir,— However desirous I might 
have been of giving you proofs of the high 



► Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson. 



22 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



place yi)U hold in my esteem, I should have 
been cautious of wounding your delicacy by 
thus publicly addressing you, had not the 
circumstance of our having been companions 
among the Alps seemed to give this dedica- 
tion a propriety sufficient to do away any 
scruples which your modesty might other- 
wise have suggested. 

In inscribmgthis little work to you, Icon- 
suit my heart. You know well how great is 
the difference between two companions loll- 
ing in a post-chaise, and two t.avellers plod- 
ding slowly along the road, side by side, 
each with his little knapsack of necessaries 
upon his shoulders. How much more of 
heart between the two latter ! 

I am happy in being conscious, that I 
phall have one reader who will approach the 
conclusion of these few pages with regret. 
You they must certainly interest, in remind- 
ing you of moments to which you can hardly 
look back without a pleasure not the less 
dear from a shade of melancholy. You will 
meet with few images without recollecting 
the spot where we observed them together ; 
consequently, whatever is feeble in my de- 
fcign, or spiritless in my coloring, will be 
amply supplied by your own memory. 

With still greater propriety I might have 
inscribed to you a description of some of 
the features of your native mountains, 
through which we have wandered together, 
in the same manner, with so much pleasure. 
But the sea-sunsets, which give such splen- 
dor to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the 
chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bcthge- 
lert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine 
steeps of the Conway, and the still more in- 
teresting windings of the wizard stream of 
the Dee, remain yet untouched. Ap]3rchen- 
sive that my pencil may never be exercised 
on these subjects, I cannot let slip this op- 
portunity of thus publicly assuring you with 
how much affection and esteem 
I am, dear Sir, 

Most sincerely yours, 

W, Wordsworth. 

London, 1793. 



Happiness (if she had been to be found on 
earth) among the charms of Nature — 
Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller — 
Author crosses France to the Alps — Pres- 
ent state of the Grande Chartreuse — 
Lake of Como — Time, Sunset — .Same 
Scene, Twilight — Same Scene, Morning ; 



its voluptuous Character ; Old man and 
forest-cottage music — River Tusa — Via 
Mala and Grison (iipsy— Sckellenen-thal 
— Lake of Uri — Stormy sunset — Chapel 
of William Tell — Force of local emotion 
— Chamois-chaser — View of the higher 
Alps — Manner of life of a Swiss moun- 
taineer, interspersed with views of the 
higiier Alps — Golden age of the Alps — 
Lite and views continued— Ranz des 
Vaches, famous Swiss Air— Abbey of 
Einsiedlen and its pilgrims — Valley of 
Chamouny — Mont Blanc — Slavery of 
Savoy — Influence of liberty on cottage- 
happiness— France — Wish for the Extir- 
pation of Slavery — Conclusion. 

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
Where from distress a refuge might be 

found. 
And solitude prepare the soul for heaven ; 
Sure, nature's God that spot to man had 

given 
Where falls the purple morning far and wide 
In flakes of light upon the mountain side ; 
Where with loud voice the power of water 

shakes 
The leafy wood, or sleeps in c;uiet lakes. 

Yet not unrecompensed the man shall 

roam , 
Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
And plods through some wide realm o'er 

vale and height, 
Thoueh seeking only holiday delight ; 
At least, not owning to himself an aim 
To which tht sage would give a prouder 

name. 
No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 
Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; 
Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, 
Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. 
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn ; 
And peeps the far-off spire, his evening 

bourn ! 
Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head. 
And dear the velvet green-swanl to his 

tread : 
Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming 

eye ? 
Upward he looks — " and calls it luxury : " 
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend ; 
In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; 
While chastening thoughts of sweetest us^ 

bestowed 
By wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



«3 



Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide 

bower, 
To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; 
He views the sun uplift his golden fire, 
Or sink, with heart alive lilce Memnon's 

lyre ; [ray, 

Blesses the moon that comes with kindly 
To light him shaken by his rugged way. 
Back from his sight no bashful children 

steal ; 
He sits a brother at the cottage-meal ; 
His humble looks no shy restraint impart; 
Around him plays at will the virgin lieart. 
While unsuspended wlicels the village dance, 
The maidens eye him with enquiring glance. 
Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, 
Or desperate love, bewildered, he came 

there. 

A hope, that prudence could not then 

approve, 
That clung to Nature with a truant's love, 
O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps 

led; 
Her files of road-elms, high above my head 
In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze : 
Or where her patliways straggle as they 

please 
By lonely farms and secret villages. 
lUit lo ! the Alps, ascending white in air, 
Toy vrith the sun and glitter from afar. 

And now, emerging from the forest's 

gloom, 
I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy 

doom. 
VViiither is fled that Power whose frown 

severe 
Awed sober Reason till she crouched in 

fear 'i 
Thill Silence, once in de;*tlilike fetters 

bound, 
Chains that were loosened only by the 

sound 
Of iioly rites chanted in measured round .'' 
— The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, 
Tlie cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
Tiie thundering tube tlie ageri angler hears, 
Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps 

away his tears. 
Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled 

heads. 
Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night 

o erspreads ; 
Strong terror checks the female peasant's 

sighs, 



And start the astonished shades at female 

eyes. 
From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted 

And blow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
A viewless flight of lavghing Demons mock 
The Cross, by angels planted * on the aerial 

rock. 
The " parting Genius " sighs with hollow 

breath 
Along the mystic streams of Life and 

Death, t 
Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
Portentous through her old woods' trackless 

bounds, 
Vallombre,J 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
Forever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 

More pleased, my foot the hidden margin 

roves 
Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. 
No meadows thrown between, the giddy 

steeps 
Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow 

deeps. 
— To towns, whose shades of no rude noise 

complain, 
From ringing team apart and grating wain— 
To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's 

bound, 
Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, 
Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 
And o'er the whitened wave their shadows 

fling- 
The pathway leads, as round the steeps it 

twines ; 
And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. 
The loitering traveller hence, at evening, 

sees 
From rock-hewn steps the sail between the 

trees ; 
Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark- 
eyed maids 
Tend the small harvest of their garden 

glades ; 
Or stops the solemn moutita'.n-shades to 

view 
Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and 

blue, 
And track the yellow lights from stetp to 

steep, 
As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. 



* Alludiivj; to crosses seen on the t(n>s of the 
spiry Kicks of Chartreuse. 

t Names of rivers at the Chartreuse. 

i Name of one of tlie valleys of the Cha» 
treuse. 



H 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed 
[n golden light ; half hides itself in shade : 
While, from amid the darkened roofs, the 

spire, 
Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like 

fire : 
There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
Rich golden verdure on the lake below. 
Slow glides tlie sail along the illumined 

shore, 
And steals into the shade the lazy oar ; 
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious 

sighs, 
And amorous music on the water dies. 

How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that 

greets 
Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; 
Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that 

scales 
Thy cliffs ; the endless waters of thy vales ; 
Thy lowly cots that sprmkle all the shore, 
Each with its household boat beside the 

door ; 
Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue 

sky ; 
Thy towns, that cleave, like swallow's nests, 

on high ; 
That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, de- 
scried 
Dim from the tv/Jli.;ht waters shaggy side. 
Whence lutes and voices down the en- 
chanted woods 
Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten 

floods ; 
— Tliy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue 

or gray, 
'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from 

morning's ray 
Slow-travelling down the western hills, to 

enfold 
Its green-tinted margin in a blaze of gold ; 
Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin 

bell 
Calls forth the woodman from his desert 

cell. 
And quickens the blithe sound of oars that 

pass 
Along the streaming lake, to early mass. 
But now farewell to each and all — adieu 
To every charm, and last and chief to you, 
Jfe lovely maidens that in noontide shade 
Rest near your little plots of wheaten 

glade ; 
To all that binds the sctil in powerless 

trance, 
Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; 



Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles 

illume 
Thy sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. 
— Alas ! the very murmur of the streams 
Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuoiis 

dreams, 
While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to 

dwell 
On joys that might disgrace the captive's 

cell. 
Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's 

marge, 
And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge, 

Yet are thy softer arts with power indued 
To soothe and cheer the poor man's soli- 
tude. 
By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home 
Left vacant for the day, I love to roam. 
But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 
In which a cabin undeserted stood ; 
There an old man an olden measure 

scanned 
On a rude viol touched with withered hand, 
As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie 
Under a hoary oak's thin canopy 
Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward 

eye 
His children's children listened to the 

sound ; 
— A Hermit with his family around! 

But let us hence ; for fair Locarno smiles 
Embowered in walnut slopes and citron 

isles : 
Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, 
Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her 

wateis gleam 
From the bright wave, in solemn gloom re- 
tire 
The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, 

aspire / 

To where afar rich orange lustres glow 
Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, 

and snow : 
Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine 
The indignant waters oi the infant Rhine, 
Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious. 

gloom 
His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
The mind condemned, without reprieve^ 

to go 
O'er life's long deserts with its charge ol 

woe. 
With sad congratulation joins the train 
Where beasts and men together o'er the 

plain 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



25 



Move on — a mighty caravan of pain r 
Hope, strengtli, and courage, social suffer- 
ing brings, 
Freshening tiie wilderness with shades and 

springs. 
— There be whose lot far otherwise is cast : 
Sole huniar tenant of the piny waste, 
By choice or doom a gypsy wanders here, 
A. nursling babe her on'y comforter* 
Lo, wiierc she sits beneath yon sliaggy 

rock, 
A cowering shape half hid in curling 
smoke ! 

When lightning among clouds and moun- 
tain snows 

Predominates, and darkness comes and 
goes, 

And the fierce torrent at the flasiies broad 

Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring 
road — 

She seeks a covert from the battering 
shower 

In the roofed bridge ; the bridge, in that 
dread hour, 

Itself all trembling at the loircnt's power. 

Nor is she more at ease on some still 

niglit, 
When not a star supplies the comfort of its 

liuht; 
Only the waining moon hangs dull and red 1 
Above a melancholy mountain's head, ' 

Then sets. In total eloom tho Vagrant i 

sighs, 
Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary 

eyes ; 
Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, 
Or to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, 
Listens, or quakes while from the forest's 

gulf 
Howls near and nearer yet the famished 

wolf. 

From the green vale of Urseren smooth 

and wide 
Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our 

guide ; 
By rocKs that, shutting out the blessed day. 
Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they ; 
By cells upon whose image, while he prays, 
The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to 

gaze: 
By many a votive do?.th-cross planted near, 
And watered -inly with the pious tear. 
That faded sik-nt from the upwar, oye 
'Jnmoved with each rude form of peril 

»>"!' '- 



Fixed on the anchor left by llim who saves 
Alike in wlielming snows, and roaring 
waves. 

But soon a peopled region on the sight 
Opens — a little world f calm delight ; 
Where mists, suspended on the expiring 

gale, 
Spre.\d roof-like o'er the deep secluded vale 
And learns of evening slipjiing in between, 
Oently illuminate a sober scene ; — 
Here, on the brown wood-cottages they 

sleep, 
There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. 
On as we journey, in clear view disjjlayed, 
The still vale lengthens underneath its 

shade 
Of low-hung vapor : on the freshened 

niead [recede. 

The green light sparkles ; — the dim bowers 
While pastoral pipes and streams the land- 
scape lull. 
And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull 
In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
Dilated hang the misty pines on higli. 
Huge convent domes with pinnacles and 

towers, 
And anticjue castles seen through gleamy 

showers. 

From such romantic dreams, my soul, 

awake ! 
To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake 
In Nature's jiristinc majesty outspread, 
Winds neither road nor path for foot to 

*read : 
The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch 
Far o'ei the water, hung with groves of 

beech ; 
Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend. 
Nor stop but where creation seems t end. 
Yet here and there, if 'mid the savagf 

scene 
Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 
Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep 
To reach a small wood-hut hung /■cldly on 

the steep. 
■ Before those thresholds (nev: can they 

know 
The face of traveller pa; sing t; and fro) 
No peasant lear.r upon h s pcle, to tell 
F >r wlv ut morni-ig tolled the funeral 

f-cji : 

r/.eir /'. -d:>g ne'er his angry bark fore- 
fo Itched by thv beggar's moan ■)f hunnr- 



i€ 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat 
To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. 
Yet thither the world's business finds its 

way 
At times, and tales unsought beguile the 

day, 
And there are those fond thoughts which 

Solitude, 
However stern, is powerless to exclude. 
There doth the maiden watch iier lover's 

sail 
Apnroaching, and upbraids the tardy gale ; 
At midnight listens till his parting oar, 
And its last echo, can be heard no more. 

And what if ospreys, cormorants, licrons, 

cry, 
Amid tempestuous vapors driving by. 
Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear 
That common growth of earth, the foodful 

ear ; 
Where the green apple shrivels on the 

spray, 
And pines the unripened pear in summer's 

kindliest ray ; 
Contentment sliares the desolate domain 
With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
Exulting 'mid the winter of tlie skies. 
Shy as the jealous chamois. Freedom flics. 
And grasps by fits her sword, and often 

eyes ; 
And sometimes, as from rock to rock she 

bounds, 
The Patriot nymph starts at imagined 

sounds, 
And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, 
Wliether some old Swiss air hath checked 

her haste 
Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between 

the blast. 

Swoln with incessant rains from hour to 

hour, 
All day the deepening floods a murmur 

pour : 
The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight : 
Dark is the region as with coming night ; 
But what a sudden burst of overpowering 

light ! 
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 
Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form ! 
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, 

shine 
The wood-crowned cliffs that" o'er the lake 

recline ; 
Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold. 
At once to pillars turned that flame with 

gold: 



Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shu* 
The west, that burns like one dilated sun, 
A crucible of mighty compass, felt 
By mountains, glowing till they seem to 
melt. 

But, lo ! the boatman, overawed, before 
The pictured fane of Tell suspends his jar 
Confused the Marathonian tale appears. 
While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. 
And who, that walks where men of ancient 

days 
Have wrought with godlike arm tlie deeds 

of praise, 
Feels not the spirit of the place control. 
Or rouse and agitate his laboring soul ? 
Say, wlio, by thinking on Canadian hills, 
Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills. 
On Zutphen's plain or on that Highland 

dell, 
Through which rough Garry cleaves his way 

can tell 
What high resolves exalt the tenderest 

thought 
Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, 
Wliere breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's 

happiest sigh, 
And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye ; 
Where bleeding Sidney from the cup re- 
tired. 
And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" ex- 
pired .'' 

But now with other mind I stand alone 
Upon the summit of this naked cone. 
And watch the fearless chamois-hunter 

chase 
His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate 

space, [gave 

Through vacant worlds where Nature nevet 
A brook to murmur or a bougli to wave, 
Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred 

keep; 
Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and 

Motion sleep ; 
Where silent Hours their death-like sway 

extend, 
Save when the avalanche breaks loose, tc 

rend 
Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned 
In some dense wood or gulf of snow pro- 
found, 
Mocks the dull ear of Time with deep 

abortive sound. 
— 'Tis his, while wandering on from height 

to height, 
To see a planet's pomp and steady light 



rnr.jr^ iVRirrExW in vourrr 



V 



In the least star of scarce-appearing 

night ; 
While the pale moon moves noar him, on 

the bound 
Of ether, shining with diminished round. 
And far and wide the icy summits blaze, 
Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : 
I'o him the day-star glitters small and 

bright, 
Sliorn of its beams, insufferably white, 
And he can look beyond the sun, and view 
Tliose fast-receding depths of sable blue 
Flying till vision can no more pursue ! 
■ — At once bewildering mists around him 

close, 
And cold and hunger are his least of woes ; 
The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 
Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 
Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits 

sink ; 
Bread has he none, the snow must be his 

drink •, 
And, ere his eyes can close upon the 

day, 
The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 

Now couch thyself where, herad with fear 
afar. 

Thunders through echoing pines the head- 
long Aar; 

Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 

Of pensive Underwaldcn's pastoral heights. 

— Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has 
seen 

The native Genii walk the mountain green ? 

Or heard, while other worlds their charms 
reveal, 

Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal ? 

While o'er the desert, answering every 
close, 

Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and 
goes. 

—And sure there is a secret Power that 
reigns 

Here, where no trace of man the spot pro- 
fanes, 

Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on 
h.gh 

Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky ; 

Or distant herds that pasturing upward 
creep, 

And, not untended, chmb the dangerous 
steep. 

How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 

Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 

An idle voice, the sabbatli region fills 

Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 



And with that voke accords the soothing 

sound 
Of drowsy bells, forever tinkling roimd ; 
Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
licneath the cliffs, and pine-wood's steady 

sui^h ; * 
The .solitary heifer's deepened low ; 
Or rumbling, heard remote, of falhng snr.w. 
All motions, sounds, and voices, far and 

nigh, 
Ijlcnd in a music of tranquillity ; 
Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage 

joy. 

When, from tlie sr.nny breast of open 

seas, 
And bays wilh myrtle fringed, the southern 

breeze 
Comes on to gladden .April with the sight 
Of green isles widening on each snow-clad 

^height ; 
When shout and lowing herds the valley 

fill, 
And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, 
The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, 
Leaving to silence the deserted vale ; 
And like the Patriarchs in their simple age 
Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to 

stage ; 
High and more high in Summer's heat 

they go. 
And hear the rattling thunder far bek'W ; 
Or steal beneath the mountains, half-de- 
terred, 
Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing 

herd. 

One I behold who, 'cross the foaming 

flood. 
Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood ; 
Another high on that green ledge , — lie 

gained 
The tempting spot with every sinew 

strained ; 
And downward thence a knot of grass he 

throws, 
Food for his beasts in time of winter snows, 
— Far different life from what tradition 

hoar 
Transmits of happier lot in times of yore ! 
Then Summer lingered long ; and honey 

flowed 
From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe 

abode : 



* Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of tha 
sound of the wind through the trees. 



2*5 



rnr.Afs ir^/^/Ti/i/v /n youth. 



Continiia\ waters welling clieered tlie 

waste, 
And i)]ants were wliolcsonic, now of deadly 

taste : 
Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, 
Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled : 
Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures 

bare, 
To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty 

fare. 
Then the n^ilk-thistle flourished through the 

land, 
And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, 
Thrice every day, the pad and welcome 

iiand. 
Thus docs the father to his children tell 
Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. 
Alas ! that human guilt provoked the r;;d 
Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
Stdl Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
joys only given to uncurnipted hearts. 

'Tis morn : with gold the verdant moun- 
tain glows ; 

More high, the snowy peaks with hues of 
rose. 

Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, 

A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 

A solemn sea ! whose billows wide around 

Stand motionless, to awful silence bound ; 

Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops 
uprear. 

That like to leaning masts of stranded ships 
appear, 

A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, 

Gapes in the center of the sea— and tiuough 

That dark mysterious gulf ascending, 
sound 

Innumerable streams with roar profound. 

Mount through the nearer vapors notes of 
birds, 

And merry flageolet ; the low of herds. 

The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling 
_ bell, 

Talk, laughter, and perchance a church- 
tower knell • 

Think not, the peasant' from aloft has 
gtzed 

And heard with heart unmoved, with soul 
unraised ; 

Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less 

Alive to independent happiness. 

Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even- 
tide 

Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side • 

For as the pleasures of his simple day 

Beyond his native valley seldom otray, 



Nought round its darling precints can h» 

finil 
But brings some j ast enjoyment to his 

mind ; 
While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's '.irn, 
Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his 

return. 

Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
Was blest as free — for he was Nature's 

child. 
}Ie all superior but his God disdained, 
Walked none restraining, and by none re- 
strained : 
Conf;.'Ssed no law but what his reason 

taught. 
Did all he wished, and wished but what he 

ought, 
As man in his primeval dower arrayed 
The image of his glorious Sire displayed. 
Even so, by faitlifiil Nature guarded, here 
Tlie traces of primeval Man ai^jiear ; 
The simple dignity no forms debase; 
TJie eye sublime, and surly lion-gracc: 
The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, , 
His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; 
—Well tauglit by that to feel his rights, 

prepared 
With this " th^^ blessings h;^ enjoys ig 
guard." 

And, as his native hills rncirclc groimd 
For many a marvellous victory renowned. 
The work of Freedom daring to oppose, 
With few 111 arms innumerable foes, 
When to those famous fields his stops are 

led, 
An unknown power connects him with the 

dead : 
For images of other worlds are there ; 
Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
Fitfullv, and in flashes, through his sou', 
Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports 

roll ; 
His bosom heaves, his spirit towers amain. 
Beyond the senses and their little reign. 

And oft, when that dread vision hath 

past by, 
He holds with God himself communion 

high. 
There where the peal of swelling torrents 

fills 
The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; 
Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 
Reclined, he sees, above him and below, 
Bright stars of ice and azure fields oJ 

snow; 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



29 



While needle peaks of granite shooting bare 

Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. 

And when a gathering weight of shadows 

brown 
Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down ; 
And Pikes, of darkness named and fear 

and storms,* 
Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, 
In sea-iike reach of prospect round him 

sjiread, 
Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red — 
Awe in his breast with holiest Tove unites, 
And the near heavens imjaart their own de- 
lights. 

When downward to his winter hut he 

goes, 
Dear and more dear the lessening circle 

grows ; 
That hut which on the hills so oft employs 
His thoughts, the central point of all his 

joys. 
And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, 
Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, 
So to the homestead, where the grandsire 

tends 
A little prattling child, he oft descends, 
To glance a look upon the well-matched 

pair ; 
Till storm and driving ice blockade him 

there. 
There, safely guarded by the woods behind, 
lie licars the chiding of the baffled wind, 
Hears Winter calling all his terrors round. 
And, blest within himself, he shrinks not 

from the sound. 

Through Nature's vale his homely pleas- 
ures glide. 

Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride ; 

The bound of all his vanity, to deck, 

With one bright bell, a favorite heifer's 
neck; 

Well pleased upon some simple annual 
feast, 

Remembered half the year and hoped the 
rest. 

If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, 

Of thrice ten sunnners dignify the board. 

— Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 

Is all we have to cheer our wintry way ; 

And here the unwilling mind may moie 
than trace 

The general sorrows of the human race : 



* As .Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror : 
ter-Horii, the pike of storms, &c., &c. 



Wct- 



The churlish gales of penury, that blow 
Cold as the north wind o'er a waste of 

snow, 
To them the gentle groups of bliss deny 
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
Yet more ;— compelled by Powers which 

only deign 
That solitary man distiub their reign, 
Powers that support au imremitting strife 
With all the tender charities of life, 
Full ott the father, wlien his sons have grown 
To manliood, seems their title to disown ; 
And from his nest amid the storms of 

heaven 
Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was 

driven ; 
With stern composure watches to the 

plain — 
And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! 

When long familiar joys are all resigned, 
Why does their sad remembrance haunt liie 

mind 1 
Lo ! where through flat Catavia's willovvj 

groves, 
Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves ; 
O'er the ciuled waters Alpine measures 

swell, 
And search the affections to their inmost 

cell; 
Sweet poison spreads along the listener's 

veins, 
Turning past j>leasures into mortal pains ; 
I'oison, which not a frame of steel can 

brave, 
Bows his young head with sorrow to the 

grave. 

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume I 
Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the 

hills illume ! 
Fresh gales and dews of life's delirious 

morn. 
And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, re- 
turn ! 
Alas ! the little joy to man allowed 
Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud ; 
Or like the beauty in a flower installed, 
Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 
Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or 

care, 
And taught that pain is pleasure's natural 

heir, 
We still confide in more than we can know : 
Deatli would be else the favoitle friend ck 
woe. 



JO 



POEMS WRITTEN TN YOUTH. 



'Mid savage rockr, ..nd seas of sii-ow that 
shine, 
Between interminable tracts of pine, 
Within a temple stands an awful shrine, 
By an uncertain lic^ht revealed, that falls 
On the mute lma;:::;e and the troubled walls. 
Oil ! give not me tliat eye of hard disdain 
riiat views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's * 

wretched fane. 
VVhiJj ghastly faces through the gloom ap- 
pear, 
Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear ; 
While prayer contends with silenced agony, 
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it 
there ! 

The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, 
Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire : 
Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day 
Close on the remnant of their weary wav , 
While they are drawing toward the saci.^d 

floor 
Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall 

gnaw no more. 
How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 
The fountains reared for them amid tiie 

waste ! 
Their tliirst they slake : — they vv'ash their 

toil worn feet, 
And some with tears of joy each ollur 

greet. 
Yes, 1 must see you when ye first behold 
Those holy turrets tipped with evening 

gold, 
In tliat glad moment will for you a sigh 
Be heaved, of charitable sympathy ; 
In that glad moment when your hands are 

prest 
In mute devotion on the thankful breast ! 

Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields 
Witii rocks and gloomy woods her fertile 

fields : 
Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, 
And with wild flowers and blooming or- 
chards blend : — 
A scene more fair than what the Grecian 

feigns 
Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains ; 
Here ail the seasons revel hand in hand : 

* This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of 
relief, by niultitudcs, from every corner of tlie 
C:Uliolic world, laboring under meutal or bodily 
»ffiictiuns. 



'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets 
fanned, 

They sport beneath that mountain's match- 
less height 

That holds no commerce with the summer 
night. 

From age to age, throughout his lonely 
bounds 

The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; 

Appalling havoc ! but serene his brow, 

Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow ; 

Glitter the stars above, and all is black 
below. 

What marvel then if many a Wanderer 
sigh, 
While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, 
That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale ! 
Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal 

gale ; 
That thou, the slave of slaves, are doomed 

to pine 
And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, 
To soothe or cheer, to soften or retine. 
Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to 

strav, 
With sill ill winds whistling round my lone- 
ly way, 
On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad 

moors, 
Or where dark sea-weed lashes Scotland's 

shores ; 
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breath- 
ing rose, 
And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows ; 
Still have 1 found, where Tyranny prevails, 
That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, 
While the remotest hamlets blessings share 
In thy loved presence known, and only 

there ; 
/ArtrZ-blessings — outward treasures too 

whicli the eye 
Of the sun peeping through the clouds can 

spy, 
And every passing breeze will testify. 
There, to the porch, belike with jasmine 

bound 
Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is 

wound ; 
The housewife there a brighter garden sees, 
Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; 
On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow ; 
And gray-haired men look up with livelier 

brow,— [rest ; 

To greet the traveller needing food and 
Housed for the nightj or but a half-hour't 

guest, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



31 



Anl oil, fair France! though now the 

traveller sees 
Thy tiuee-striped banner fluctuate on the 

breeze ; 
Though martial songs have banished songs 

of love, 
And nightingales desert the village grove, 
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's 

alarms, 
And the short thunder, and the flash of 

arms ; 
That cease noi .-"ill night falls, when fds and 

nigh 
Sole sound, the Sourd * prylongs his mourn- 
ful cry I 
■ — Yet, hast thou fom d that Freedom 

spreads her power 
Beyond the cottage-he'srth, the cottage-door; 
All nature smiles, i/jd owns beneath her 

eyes 
Her fields peculiar- And peculiar skies. 
Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters 

glide 
Through rustlir/' aspens heard from side to 

side, 
When from Oc «ber clouds a milder light 
Fell where the /jJue flood rippled into white ; 
Methought fnc k\ every cot the watchful bird 
Crowed witV ear-piercing power till then 

unlieard , 
Each ciackir g mill, that broke the murmur- 
ing str< Ams, 
Rucked tlv charmed thought in inore de- 

ligiitfi / dreams ; 
Chasing t/ ose pleasant dreams, the falling 

leaf 
Awoke a .ainter sense of moral grief ; 
'i'lie mea( ured echo of the distant flail 
Wountl r I more welcome cadence down the 

vale ; 
With nil re majestic course the water rolled. 
And rip'; iiing foliage shone with richer gold. 
— Hut / )es ;irc gathering — Liberty must 

rai i ;, 
Rod on lie hills her beacon's far-seen blaze ; 
Must 111 the tocsin ring from tower to 

to\; M- !— 
Nearer nd nearer comes the trying hour ! 
Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's per- 

ver I'd ire 
Rouse '» tU's own aid, and wrap thy fields in 

fire ; 



• An in ect so called, which emits a short, 
melanchol . ci v, heard at the close of the sum- 
mer evenii «-. on the banks of ti»e Loire. 



Lc, from the flames a great and gloriou* 

birth ; 
As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new 

earth ! 
— All cannot be : the promise is too fair 
For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial 

air: 
Yet not for this will sober reason frown 
Upon that promise, nor the hope disown ; 
She knows that only from high aims ensue 
Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. 

Great God ! by whom the strifes of men 
are weighed 
In an impartial balance, give thine aid 
To the just cause ; and oh, ! do thou pre- 
side 
Over the mighty stream now spreading wide : 
So shall its waters, from the heavens sup- 
plied 
In copious showers, from earth by whole^ 

some springs. 
Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile- 
like wings! 
And grant that every sceptred child of clay 
Who cries presumptuous, " Here the flood 

shall stay,'' 
May in its progress see thy guiding hand. 
And cease the acknowledged purpose to 

withstand; 
Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, 
Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more ! 

Tonight, my Friend, within this humble 
cot 
Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot 
In timely sleep ; and when, at break of day. 
On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams 

play, 
With a light heart our course we may renew. 
The first whose footsteps print Ihe moun- 
tain dew. 
1791, 1792. 



VII. 

LINES 



Left upon a Scat in a Yew tree, which 
stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a 
desolate part of the shore, commanding a 
beautiful prospect. 
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew- 
tree stands 
Vax from all human dwelling : what if herft 
No si)arkrmg rivuk-t spread the verdant 
herb ? 



32 



POEMS WRITTEN IiV YOVTH. 



What if the bee love not these barren 

boughs ? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 
waves, [mind 

That break against the shore, shall lull thy 
l\y one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

• Who he was 

That piled these stones and with the mossy 

sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged 

Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling 

bower, 
I well remember — He was one who owned 
No common soul. In youth by science 

nursed. 
And led by nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
A favored IJeing, knowing no desire 
Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the 

taint 
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
And scorn, — agains* all enemies prepared. 
All but neglect. The world, for so it 

thought. 
Owed him no service ; wherefore he at 

once 
With indignation turned himself away. 
And with the food of pride sustained his 

soul 
In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy 

boughs 
Had charms for him ; and here he loved to 

sit. 
His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 
And on these barren rocks, with fern and 

heath. 
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er. 
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
An emblem of his own unfruitful hfe : 
And, hfting up his head, he then would 

gaze 
On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 
Thou seest,— and he would gaze till it be- 
came 
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 

that time, 
W'hen nature had subdued him to herself. 
Would he forget those Beings to whose 

minds 
Warm from the labors of benevolence 
The world, and human life, appeared a 
scene 



Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, 
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
What he must never feel : and so, lost Man I 
On visionary views would fancy feed, 
Till his eye streamed with tears. In thi« 

deep vale 
He died, — this seat is only monument. 

If Thou be one whose heart the holy 

forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure, 
Stranger ! henceforth be warned, and kno^^ 

that pride, 
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
For any living thing, hath faculties 
Which he has never used ; that thought 

with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
The least of Nature's works, one who might 

move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom 

holds 
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to 

love ; 
True dign.ty abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
In lowliness of heart. 
1795- 



v:ii. 
GUILT AND SORROW; 

OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN 

ADVERTISEMENT, 

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 
THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842. 

Not less than one-third of the following 
poem, though it has from time to time been 
altered in the expression, was published so 
far back as the year 1798, under the title ol 
" The Female Vagrant." The extract is of 
such length that an apology seems to be re- 
quired for reprinting it here : but it was 
necessary to restore it to its original posi- 
tion, or the rest would have been unintelli- 
gible. The v/hole was written before the 
close of the year 1794, and I will detail, 
rather as a matter of literary biography than 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



II 



for any other reason, the circumstances 
under which it was produced. 

During the latter part of the summer of 
1793, 'living passed a month in the Isle of 
Wight, in view of the fleet whicli was then 
prejiaring for sea off Portsmouth at the 
commencement of the war, I left the place 
with melanclioly forebodings. The Ameri- 
can war was still fresh in memory. The 
struggle which was beginning, and which 
many thought would be brought to a speedy 
Close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain 
Ov^mg added to those of the allies, I was as- 
sured in my own mind would be of long 
continuance, and productive of distress and 
misery beyond all possible calculation. This 
conviction was pressed upon me by having 
been a witness, during a long residence in 
revolutionary France, of the spirit which 
prevailed in that country. After leaving the 
Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering 
on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though 
cultivation was (hen widely spread through 
parts of it, had upon the whole a still more 
impressive appearance than it now retains. 

The monuments and traces of antiquity, 
scattered in abundance over that region, led 
me unavoidably to compare what we know 
or guess of those remote times with certain 
aspects of modern society, and with calam- 
ities, principally those consequent upon 
war, to which, more than other classes of 
men, the poor are subject. In those re- 
flections, joined .with particular facts that 
had come to my knowledge, the following 
stanzas originated. 

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction 
in the minds of those who are well acquaint- 
ed with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to 
say, that of the features described as belong- 
ing to it, one or two are taken from other 
desolate parts of England. 



A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's 

Plain 
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare ; 
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
Help from the staff he bore ; for mien and air 
Were hardy, though his checks seemed worn 

with care, 
5'oth of the ^ime to come, and time long fled : 
Down fell iK straggling locks his thin gray 

hair ; 
A coat he wore of military red 
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch 

and shred. 



While thus he journeyed, step by step led on. 
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure 
That welcome in such a house for him wr» 

none. 
No board inscribed the needy to allure 
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and 

poor 
And desolate, " Here you will find a friend I " 
The pendent grapes glittered above the 

door ; — 
On he must pace, perchance 'till night de- 
scend, 
Where'er the dreary roads their bare white 

hncs extend. 

in. 
The gathering clouds grew red with stormy 

fire, 
In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 
That inn he long had passed ; the distant 

spire. 
Which oft .as he looked back had fixed his 

eye. 
Was lost, though still lie looked, in the 

blank sky. 
Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around 
And scarce could any trace of man descry, 
Save cornfields stretched and stretching 

without bound ; 
But where the sower dwelt was nowhcr« to 

be found. 

IV. 

No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant 

green. 
No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear ; 
Long files of corn-stacks here and there 

were seen, 
But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. 
Some laborer, thought he, may perchance bo 

near ; 
.And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain ; 
No voice made answer, he could only hear 
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain. 
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the un- 

furrowed plain. 

V. 

Long had he fancied each successive slope 

Concealed some cottage, whither ht might 
turn 

And rest; but now along heaven's darken- 
ing cope 

The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward 
borne. 

Thus warned, he sought some shepheitfi 
spreading thorn 



34 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, 

But sought in vain ; for now, all wild, for- 
lorn, 

And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; 

Tiie wet cold ground, he feared, must be 
his only bed. 

VI. 

And be it so — for to the chill night shower 
And the sharp wind his head he oft hath 

bared ; 
A sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
Hath told : for, landing after labor hard, 
Full long endured in hope of just reward, 
He to an arm6d fleet was forced away 
liy seamen, who perhaps themselves had 

shared 
A like fate ; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 
'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs per- 
haps, said nay. 



For years the work of carnage did not cease, 
And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed. 
Death's minister ; then came his glad release. 
And hope returned, and pleasure fondly 

made 
Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid 
The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 
Round his wife's neck ; the prize of victory 

laid 
In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow 
As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she 

could know. 

VIII. 

Vain liope ! for fraud took all that he had 

earned. 
The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
Even in the desert's heart ; but he, returned. 
Bears not to those he loves their needful 

food. 
His home approaching, but in such a mood 
That from his sight his children might have 

run. 
He met a traveller, roblied him, shed his 

blood ; 
And when the miserable work was done 
He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate 

to shun. 



From that day forth no place to him could be 
So lonely, but that thence might come a pang 
Brought from without to inward misery. 
Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
A sound of chains along the desert rang ; 



He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
A luiman body that in irons swang, 
Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 
And, hovering, round often it did a raven f!j( 



It was a spectacle which none might view, 
In spot so savage, but with shuddering p;iin : 
Nor only did for him at once renew 
All he had feared from man, but rouscil .t 

train 
Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
Rolled at his back along the living jilain ; 
He fell, and without sense or motion l.ty , 
But, when the trance was gone, fecbl) pur 

sued his way. 



As one whose brain habitual phrensv fims 
Owes to the fit in which his soul lialli to. .id 
Profounder quiet, when the fit retires. 
Even so the diie phantasnia wlucii li.id 

crossed 
His sense, in sudden vacancy quite Irst. 
Left his mind still as a deep evening siiLai;j 
Nor, if accosted now, in tliought eniiiosscd, 
Moody, or inly troubled, would lie seem 
To traveller who might talk on any casual 

theme. 



Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkniss juKd, 
Gone is the raven timely rest to seek , 
He seemed the oniy creature in the wild 
On whom the elements their rage mi-ht 

wreak ; 
Save that the bustard, or those regions bleak 
Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain lii,dit 
A man there wandering, gave a mournful 

shriek, 
And half rpon the ground, with strange 

affright, 
Forced hard against the wind a thick un- 

wieldly flight. 

XIII. 

All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound , 
The weary eye — which, whcresoe'er it strays, 
Marks nothing but the red sun's setting 

round. 
Or on the earth strange lines, in former days 
Left by gigantic arms— at length surveys 
What seems an antique castle spreading wicJ^ 
Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 



FORMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Their brow sublime : in shelter there to 

bide 
He turned, while rain poured down smoking 

on every side. 

XIV. 

Pile of Stone-hengc ! so proud to hint yet 

keep 
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and 

hear 
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's 

sweep, 
Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; 
Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear 
For sacrifice its throngs of living men. 
Before thy face did ever wretch appear, 
Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier 

pain 
Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter 

row would gain ? 



Within that fabric of mysterious form, 
Winds met in conflict, each by turns su- 
preme ; 
And, from the perilous ground dislodged, 

through storm 
And rain he wildcred on, no moon to stream 
From gulf of parting clouds one friendly 

beam. 
Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led ; 
Once did the lightning's faint disastrous 

gleam 
Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, 
Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of 
pleasure shed. 

XVI. 

No swmging sign-board creaked from cottage 
elm 

To stay his steps with faintness overcome ; 

*Twas dark and void as ocean's watery 
realm 

Roaring with storms beneath night's star- 
less gloom ; 

No gypsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom ; 

No laborer watched his red kiln glaring 
bright. 

Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's 
room ; 

Along the waste no line of mournful light 

From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed 
athwart the night. 

XVII. 

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon 

arose ; 
The downs were visible, — and now revealed 



A structure stands, which two bare slope* 

enclose. 
It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, 
Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build 
A lonely Spital, the belated swain 
From the night terrors of that wasto to 

shield : 
But there no human being could remain, 
And now the walls are named the " Dead 

House" of the plain. 

XVIIl. 

Though he had little cause to love the abode 

Of man, or covet sight of mortal face. 

Yet when faint beams of light that ruin 

showed, 
How glad he was at length to find some 

trace 
Of human shelter in that dreary place. 
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, 
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame 

embrace. 
In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows 
He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes begin 

to close ; 

XIX. 

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to 

come 
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised 

his head. 
And saw a woman in the naked room 
Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed . 
The moon a wan dead light around her shed. 
He waked her — spake in tone that would not 

fail. 
He hoped, to calm her mind ; but ill he sped, 
For of that ruin she had heard a tale 
Which now with freezmg thoughts did all 

her powers assail ; 

XX. 

Had heard of one who, forced from storms 

to shroud. 
Felt the loose walls of his decayed Retreat 
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud. 
While his horse pawed the floor with furious 

heat ; 
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, 
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled 

horse : 
The man half raised the stone with pain and 

sweat. 
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its 

force, 
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered 

corse. 



50 



POEMS WRITTEN- IJV YOUTH. 



XXI. 



Such tale of this lone mansion she had 
learned, 

And, wlien that shape, with eyes in sleep 
half drowned, 

Oy the moon's sullen lamp she first dis- 
cerned, 

Cold stony horror all her senses bound. 

llcr he addressed in words of cheering 
sound ; 

Recovering heart, hkc answer did slie make ; 

And well it was that, of the corse there 
found, 

In converse that ensued she nothing spake ; 

Shj knew not wliat dire pangs in him sucli 
talc could wake, 

XXII. 

But soon his voice and words of kind int .t 
Banished that dismal tiiouglit ; and now the 

wind 
In fainter howhngs told its rage was spent : 
Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, 
Which by degrees a confidence of mind 
And nuitunl interest failed not to create 
And, to a natural sympatliy resigned. 
In that forcsaken building where they sate 
Tiie Woman thus retraced her own untow- 
ard fate. 

XXIII. 

•* By Dcrwent's side my father dwelt — a 

man 
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 
And I believe that, soon as I began 
To lisp, lie madi, me kneel beside my bed, 
And in his hearing there my prayers I said ; 
And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
I read, and loved the books in which 1 read ; 
For books in every neighboring house I 

sought. 
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure 

brought. 

XXIV. 

A little croft we owned — a plot of corn, 

A garden stored with peas, and mint, and 

thyme, 
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 
Vluckcd while the church bells rang their 

earliest chime. 
Can I forget our freaks at slicaring time ! 

hen's rich 

scarce espied 
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime ; 
The swans that with white chests upreared 

in pride 
Kushing and racing came to meet me at 

the water-side/ 



The staff I well remember which upbore 
The bending body of my active sire ; 
His seat beneath the honied sycamore 
Where the bees hummed, and chair by 

winter fire ; 
When market-morning came, the neat attire 
With which, though bent on haste, myself J. 

decked : ' 

Our watchful house-dog, that would tease 

and tire 
The stranger till its barking-fit I checked ; 
The red-breast, known for years, whicli al 

my casement pecked. 



The suns of twenty summers danced along, — 
Too little marked how fast they rolled away ; 
But, through severe mischance and cruel 

wrong, 
My father's substance fell into decay . 
Wo toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 
When Fortune miglit put on a kinder look^ 
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; 
He from his old hereditary nook 
Must part; the summons came; -our final 

leave we took. 

XXVII. 

It was .indeed a miserable hour 

Wiien, from the last hill-top, my sire sur 

veyed, 
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
That on his marriage-day sweet music madel 
Till then, he hoped his iDones might there be 

laid 
Close by my mother in their native bowers ; 
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and 

prayed ; — 
I could not pray : — through tears that fell in 

showers 
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no 

longer ours I 

XXVIII, 

There was a Youth whom I had loved so 
long. 

That when I loved him not I cannot .say : 

'Mid the green mountains many a thought- 
less song 

We two had sung, like gla Isi-me birds in 
May ; 

When we began to tire of childish play, 

We seemed still more and more to prize 
. each other ; 

We talked of marriage and our marriage 
dayi 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Vl 



And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
For never could 1 hope to meet with such 
another. 

XXIX 

Two years were passed since to a distant 

town 
He had repaired to ply a gainful trade : 
V/hat tears of bitter grief, tili then unknown ! 
What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed I 
To him we turned: — we had no other aid: 
Like one revived, upon his neck I wept ; 
And her whom he had loved in joy, he said. 
He well could love in grief , his faith he 

kept ; 
And in a quiet home once more my father 

slept. 



We lived in peace and comfort ; and were 

blest 
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. 
Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast : 
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I 

sighed, 
\nd knew not why. My happy father died, 
iVhen threatened war reduced the children's 

meal : 
Thrice happy ! that for him the grave could 

hide 
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent 

wheel, 
And tears that flowed for ills which patience 

might not heal. 



'Twas a hard change ; an evil time was come ; 
We had no hope, and no relief could gain : 
But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
Beat round to clear the streets of want and 

pain. 
My husband's arms now only serve to strain 
Mc and his cliildren hungering in his view ; 
In such dismay my prayers and tears were 

vain : 
To join those miserable men he flew. 
And now to the sea-coast, with numbers 

more, we drew. 



There were we long neglected, and we bore 
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; 
Green fields before us, and our native shore. 
We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
Ravage for which no knell was heard. Wo 

prayed 
For our departure ; wished and wished — 

nor knew, 



'Mid that long sickness and those hopes 

delayed, 
That happier days we never more must view 
The parting signal streamed— at last tlic 

land withdrew. 

XXXIII. 

But the calm summer season now was past. 
On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
Ran mountain high before the howling blast, 
And many perished in the whirlwind's 

sweep. 
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, 
Untaught that soon such anguish must 

ensue, 
Our hope such harvest of affliction reap, 
That we the mercy of the waves should rue : 
We reach the western world, a poor devoted 

crew. 

XXXIV. 

The pains and plagues that on our heads 

came down. 
Disease and fnmine, agony and fear, 
In wood or wilderness, in camp or town. 
It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 
All ])erished — all in one remorseless year, 
Husband and children ! one by one, by 

sword 
And ravenous plague, all perished: every 

tear 
Dried up, despairing, desolate, on Iward 
A British ship I waked, as from a trance 

restored." 

XXXV. 

Here paused she of all present thought 

forlorn, 
Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain 

expressed. 
Yet nature with excess of grief o'erbom?, 
From her full eyes their watery load re- 
leased. 
He too was mute ; and, ere her weepmg 

ceased. 
He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, 
And saw the dawn opening the silvery east 
With rays of promise, north and southward 

sent ; 
And soon with crimson fire kindled the 
firmament. 

XXXVI. 

" O come," he cried, " come, after weary 

night 
Of such rough storm, this happy change to 

view." 
So forth she came, and eastward looked 

the sight 



38 



POEMS tVPITTEJV IN YOUTB. 



Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw ; 
Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 
Seenved to return, dried the last hngering 

tear, 
And from her grateful heart a fresh one 

drew : 
The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer 
leuipered fit words of hope; and the lark 

V arbled near. 



They locked and saw a lengthening road, 

and wain 
That rang down a bare slope not far remote : 
The barrows glistered bright with drops of 

rain, 
Wixistied the waggoner with merry note, 
Tl/c cock far off sounded his clarion throat ; 
Bui town, or farm, or hamlet, none they 

viewed, 
Only were told there stood a lonely cot 
A long mile thence. While thither they 

pursued 
Their way, the Woman thus her mournful 

tale renewed. 

XXXVIII. 

' Peaceful as this immeasurable plain. 

Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest. 

In the calm sunshine slept the glittering 

main ; 
The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were ! 
As quiet all within me. 1 was blest, 
And looked, and fed upon the silent air 
Until It seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 



Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps. 

And gvoans that rage of racking famine 
spoke ; 

The unburied dead that lay in festering 
heaps, 

7'he breathing pestilence that rose like 
smoke. 

The shriek that from the distant battle 
broke, 

The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid 
host 

Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder- 
stroke 

To loathsome vault*, where heart-sick an- 
guish tossed, 

Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost I 



Some mighty gulf of separation past, 

I seemed transported to another world ; 

A thought resigned with pain, when from 

the mast 
The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 
And, whistling, called the wind that hardly 

curled 
The silent sea. From the sweet thought* 

of home 
And from all hope I was forever hurled. 
For me — farthest from earthly port to roam 
Was best, could I but shun the spot where 

man might come. 

XLI. 

And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) 
That I, at last, a resting-place had found: 
' Htfj will 1 dwell,' said I, ' my whole life 

long. 
Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 
Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 
And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'— 
To break my dream the vessel reached its 

bound ; 
And homeless near a thousand homes I 

stood, 
And near a thousand tables pined and 

wanted food. 

XLH. 
No help T sought ; in sorrow turned adrift. 
Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; 
Nor morsel to my nicuth that day did lift. 
Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. 
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock 
From the cross-timber of an out-house hung . 
Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
At morn my sick lieart hunger scarcely 

stung, 
Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my 

tongue 

XLIII. 

So passed a second day \ and, when the 

third 
Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort 
— In deep despair, by fiightful wishes stirred, 
Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort ; 
There, pains which nature could no more 

support, 
With blindness hnked, did on my vitals fall ; 
And, after many interruptions short 
Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could 

crawl ; 
Unsought for was the help that did my lifo 

recall. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



XLIV. 
Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain 
Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
[ head my neighbors m their beds complain 
Of many things which never troubled me-- 
Of teet still bustling round with busy glee, 
Ot looks where common kindness had no 

part, 
Of service done with cold formality, 
Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
And groans which, as they said, might make 

a dead man start. 

XLV. 

These things just served to stir the slumber- 
ing sense. 

Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 

With strength did memory return , and, 
thence 

Dismissed, again on oj^cn day I gazed, 

At liouses,men, and common light, amazed. 

f he 'anes 1 sought, and, as the sun retired, 

Came where beneath the trees a faggot 
blazed ; 

The travellers saw me weep, my fate in- 
quired, 

And gave me food — and rest, more welcome, 
more desired. 



Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly 
With panniered asses diiven from door to 

door ; 
But life of happier son act forth to me, 
And other joys my fancy to allure— 
The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
In barn uplighted; and companions boon. 
Well met from far with revelry secure 
Among the forest glades, while jocund June 
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and 

genial uioon, 

XLVII. 

But ill they suited me — those journeys dark 
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to 

hatch ! 
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful 

bark, 
Or liang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. 
The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue 

match, 
The blp.ck disguise, the warning whistle 

shrill, 
And ear stil' bu',y on its nightly watch, 
Were not for me. brought up in notiuns; ill 
Besides, on gnpf<^ so fresh my thoughts vvcr^ 

blooding siiu. 



XLVIII. 

What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
My father I gone was every friend of thine; 
And kindred of dead husband are at best 
Small help, and, after marriage such as 

mine, 
With little kindness would to me incline 
Nor was 1 then for toil or service fit; 
My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine ; 
In open air lorgetful would I sit 
Whole hours, with idle arms in moping 

sorrow knit. 

XLIX. 

The roads I paced, 1 loitered through the 

fields ; 
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. 
Trusted my life to what chance bounty 

yields, 
Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
The ground 1 for my bed have often used 
But what afflicts my peace with keene: 

ruth 
Is that I have my inner self abused, 
Foregone the home delight of constant trutl 
And clear and open st ul, so prized in fear- 
less youth. 



Through tears the rising sun I oft have 

viewed, 
Through tears have seen him towards that 

world descend 
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
Three years a wandeier now my course 1 

bend — 
Oh ! tell me whither — fcT no earthly friend 
Have 1." — She ceased, and weeping tunu-d 

away ; 
As if because her tale was at an end. 
She wept ; because she had no more to sav 
Of that perpetual weight which on her spn it 

lay. 

M. 

True sympathy the .Sailor's looks expressed, 
His looks — for pondering he was mute tht 

while. 
Of social Order's care for wretchedness, 
Of Time's sure help to calm and recoiuili-, 
Joy's second spring and Hope's long-tn-.i.s 

ured smile, 
'Twasnot iox him to speak — a man so tried. 
Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style 
Proverbial words of comfort he applied, 
And not in vain, while they went pacing side 

by side. 



40 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



Ere long, from lieaps of turf, before then 

sight, 
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, 
Rise various wreaths tliat into one unite 
VVhirh high and higher mounts with silver 

gleam : 
Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream 
Thence bursting shrill did all remark pre- 
vent; 
They paused, and heard a hoarser voice 

blaspheme. 
And female cries. Their course they thither 

bent, 
And met a man who fownied with anger 
vehement. 

LIII. 

A woman stood with quivering lips and 

pale, 
And, pointing to a little child that lay 
Stretched on the groum!, began a piteous 

tale; 
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play 
He had provoked his father, who straight- 
way, 
As if each blow were deadlier than the last, 
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dis- 
may 
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood 

aghast ; 
And stern looks on the man her gray-haired 
Ccmrado cast. 



His voice with indignation rising high 

Such further deed in manhood's name for- 
bade ; 

The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 

With bitter insult and revilings sad ; 

Asked him in scorn what business there he 
had; 

What kind of plunder he was hunting now ; 

The gallows would one day of him be 
glad ;— 

Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's 
brow, 

y ot calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant 
would allow. 



Softly he stroked the child, wlio lay out- 
stretched 

With face to earth ; and, as tlic boy turned 
round 

His battered head, a groan the Sailor 
fetched 



As if he saw — there and upon that ground — 
Strange repetition of the deadly wound 
He had himself inflicted. Through his 

brain 
At once the griding iron passage found ; 
Deluge of tender thoughts then rush.ed 

amain. 
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear 

restrain. 

LVI. 

Within himself he said — What hearts have 
we I 

The blessing this a father gives his child ! 

Yet happy thou, poor boy 1 comjured with 
me, 

Suffering, not doing ill — fate far more mild. 

The stranger's looks and tears of wrath be- 
guiled 

Tlie father, and relenting thouglit-^ i-woke . 

He kissed his son — so all was rocnncilcd. 

Then, with a voice which inward liouiilc 
broke 

Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them be- 
spoke. 

LVII. 

" Bad IS the world, and Lard is t,he world's 

law 
Even for the man who wears the warmest 

fleece ; 
Much need have ye that time more closely 

draw 
The bond of nature, all unkiiidness cease, 
And that among so few there still be pjace- 
Else can ye hope but writh such numerous 

foes 
Your pains shall ever with your years in- 
crease ? '•' — 
While from his heart the appropriate lesson 

flows, 
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his 

woes 

LVIII. 

Forthwith the pair passed on ; and down 
they look 

Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene ; 

Where wreaths of vapor tracked a winding 
brook, 

That babbled on through groves and 
meadows green ; 

A low-roofed house peeped out the trees be- 
tween ; 

The dripping groves resound with cheerfuj 
lays. 

And melancholy lowings interven* 



POEMS WRITTEN IN" YOUTH. 



41 



Of scattered herds, that in the meadow 

graze, 
Some amid lingering shade, some touched 

by the sun's rays. 



They saw and heard, and, winding with the 

road 
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the 

vale ; 
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon 

regale. 
Ere long they reached that cottage in the 

dale : 
It was a rustic inn ; — the board was spread. 
The milk-maid followed with her brimming 

pail, 
And lustily the master carved the bread. 
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in 

comfort fed. 

LX. 

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, 

must part ; 
Wanderers whose coi;rse no longer now 

agrees. 
She rose and bade farewell ! and, while her 

heart 
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow 

ease. 
She left him there ; for, clustering lound 

his knees. 
With his oak-staff the cottage children 

played ; 
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with 

trees 
And banks of ragged earth ; beneath the 

shade 
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 

LXI. 

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood : 
Checkering the canvas roof the sunbeams 

shone. 
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood 
As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay one, 
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 
The carman wet her lips as well behoved ; 
Bed under her leat< body there was none, 
Though even to die near one she most had 

loved 
She could not of herself those wasted limbs 

have moved. 

Lxn. 
The Sailor's Widow learned with honest 

pain, 
And horaefelt force of sympathy sincere, 



Why thus that worn-out wretch must there 

sustain 
The jolting road and morning air severe. 
The wain pursued its way ; and following 

near 
In pure compassion she her steps retrace 
Far as the cottage. " A sad sight is here,'' 
She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste 
The friends whom she had left but a few 

minutes past. 

LXIII. 

While to the door with eager speed they ran, 
From her bare straw the Woman half up« 

raised 
Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan ; 
No pity askmg, on the group she gazed 
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed ; 
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. 
Fervently cried the housewife — " God lie 

praised, 
I have a house that I can call my own ; 
Nor shall she perish there, untended and 

alone ! " 

LXIV. 

So in they bear her to the chimney seat, 
And busily, though yet with fear, untie 
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. 
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh 
She strove, and not in vain,, her head lo 

rear ; 
Then said — " I thank you all ; if I must die, 
The God in heaven my prayers for you will 

hoar ; 
Till now I did not think my end had been 

so near. 

LXV. 

*' Barred every comfort labor could procure, 
Suffering wliat no endurance could assuage, 
1 was compelled to seek my father's door, 
Though lo'.h to be a burden on his age. 
But sickness stopped me in an early stage 
Of my sad journey ; and within the wain 
They placed me — there to end life's pil- 
grimage. 
Unless beneath your roof I may remain : 
For I shall never see my father's door again. 

LXVl. 

" My life. Heaven knows, hath long been 

burthcnsome ; 
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek 
May my end be ! Soon will this voice be 

dumb : 
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, 

speak 



43 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTTT. 



Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — 
Torn from our liut, that stood beside the sea 
Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome 

creek, 
My husband served in sad captivity 
On shipboard, bound till peace or death 

should set him free. 

Lxvn. 
" A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 
Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed ; 
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily 

prayers 
Our heavenly Father granted each day's 

bread ; 
Till one was found by stroke of violence 

dead. 
Whose body near our cottage chanced to 

lie; 
A dire suspicion drove i:s from our shed ; 
In vain to find a friendly face we try, 
Nor could we live together, those poor boys 

and I ; 

LXVIII. 

*' For evil tongues made oath how on that 
day 

My husband lurked about Mie neighborhood ; 

Now he had tied, and whither none could 
say. 

And he had done the deed in the dark wood — 

Near his own home ! — but he was mild and 
good ; 

Never on earth was gentler creature seen ; 

He'd not have rol:)bed the raven of its food. 

My husband's loving kindness stood be- 
tween 

Me and all worldly harms and wrongs how- 
ever keen." 

LXIX. 

Alls! the thing she told with laboring 
breath 

The S;:ilor knew too well. That wicked- 
ness 

His hand had wrought; and when, in t!ie 
hour of death, 

Ho saw his Wife's lip move his name to 
bless 

Witli lur last words, unable to suppress 

His anguish, with his heart he ceased to 
strive ; 

And, weeping Lud in this extreme distress, 

Me cried — " Do pity me ! That thou shouldst 
live 

1 neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but for- 
give I " 



To tell the change that Voice within hw 

wrought 
Nature by sign or sound made no essay ; 
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought^ 
And every mortal pang dissolved away. 
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay ; 
Yet still while over her the husband bent, 
A look was in her face which seemed to say, 
" Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven 

was sent 
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of 

content." 

LXXI. 

She slept in peace, — liiii pulses throbbed and 

stopped. 
Breathless he gazed upon her face, — then 

took 
Her hand in his, and raised it, but lx)th 

dropped, 
When on his own he cast a rueful look. 
His ears were never silent ; sleep forsook 
Ills burning eyelids^ strei-ched and stiff as 

lead ; 
All night from time to time under him shoolc 
Tlie floor as he lay shuddering on his bed ; 
And oft he groaned aloud, " O God, that I 

were dead ! " 

LXXII. 

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot ; 
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious 

care 
Through which his Wife, to that kind 

shelter brought. 
Died in his arms ; and with those thanks a 

prayer 
He breathed for her, and for that merciful 

pair. 
The corse interred, not one hour he remained 
Beneath their roof, but to the open air 
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, 
He bore within a breast where dreadful 

quiet reigned. 

Lxxni. 
Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared 
For act and suffering, to the city straight 
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime de- 
clared : 
" And from your doom,'' he added, " now 

I wait, 
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." 
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : 
" O welcome sentence which will eiM^ 
though latc»" 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



43 



Hp said, " the pangs that to my conscience 

came 
Out of the deed. My trust, Saviour ! is in 

thy name ! " 

LXXIV. 

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case 
(Reader, torejive the intoleral)le tlioii£;ht) 
They hung not; - no one on his form or face 



Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought ; 
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place 

brought 
By lawless curiosity or chance, 
When into storm theeveningsky is wrought, 
Upf)n his swingi!'>'j corse an eye can glance, 
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable 

trance. 
1793-4. 



THE BORDERERS. 



A TRAGEDY. (Composed 1795-6.) 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 



1 Of the Band of Borderers 



Marmaduke. 1 

OSV/ALD. 

Wallace. 

Lacv. ) 

Lennox. j 

Hekbf.rt. 

Wilfred, Servant to Marmapuke. 

Host. 



Forester, 

Elored, rt Peasant. 

feasant, PilgrimSy &*c. 



Idonea. 

Female Beggar. 
Eleanor, IVi/e to Eldrbd. 



Scene — Borders of England and Scotland. 
TiM'c—The Reign of Henry III. 
Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recop;iiizc, in the following composition, 
some eii^ht or ten linos which I have not sciupled to retain in the places where tiiey ori-^inally 
stood, "it is proper, how.'ver, to add, that tlicy would not have hcen used elsewhere, if 1 had 
oreseen the time when I niigiit be induced to publish this Tragedy. 
February z^, 1842. 



ACT I. 

Scene — Road in a Wood. 

Wallace and Lacy. 

Lacy. The troop will be impatient ; Ictus 

hie • 

Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray 

Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the 

Border. 
—Pity that our young Chief will have no 

part 
In this good service. 

Wal. Rather let us grieve 

That, in the undertaking which has caused 
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his 

aim. 
Companionship with One of crooked ways, 
From whose perverted soul can come no 

good 
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. 



Lacy. True ; and, rememberitig how the 
Band have proved 
That Oswald finds small favor in our sight. 
Well may we wonder he has gained such 

power 
Over our nuich-lovcd Captain. 

Wal. I have heard 

Of some dark deed to which in early life 
His passion drove him — then a Voyager 
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his 

bearing 
In Palestine? 

Lacy. Where he despised alike 

Mohammedan and Christian. But enough, 
Let us begone — the Band may else br foiled. 
VExeunt. 

Enter Marmaduke and Wili-rhd. 
Wd. Be cautious, my dear Master ( 



Mar* 



Ipercovo 



44 



POEMS JVR/TTEJV IN YOUTFT. 



That fear is likj a cloak which old men 

huddle 
About their love, as if to keep it warm. 
Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should 
part. This Stranger, 

For such he is 

Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, 

Might tempt me to a smile ; but what of 
him ? 
Wil. You know that you have saved his 

life. 
Mar. I know it. 

Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon 
me, perhaps 
That word was hasty. 
Mar. Fie I no more of it. 

Wil. Dear Master I gratitude's a heavy 
burden 
To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this Os- 
wald — 
Vourself, you do not love him. 

Mar. I do more, 

I honor him. Strong feelings to his heart 
Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt 
More of man's tlioughts and ways than his 

experience 
Has given him power to teach : and then 

for courage 
And enterprise — what perils hath he shun- 
ned ? 
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome ? 
Answer tliese questions, from our common 

knowledge, 
And be at rest. 

Wil. Oh, Sir ! 

Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred ; 

Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band 
1 shall be with them in two days, at far 
thest. 
Wil. May He whose eye is over all pro- 
tect yoi' ! \^Exit. 

Enetr Oswald {a bunch of flouts in his 
hand.) 



Osw. This wood is rich in plants and 

curious simples. 
Mar. {lookintr at them.) The wild rose, 
and tlic poppy, and the nightshade : 
Whicl» is your favorite. Oswald .-" 

Osw. That which, while it is 

Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — 

\LoQking forward. 
Not yet in sight! — We'll saunter her^; 

awhile ; 
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen 



Mar. [a letter in his hand.) It is nc 

common thing when one like you 
Performs these delicate services, and there* 

fore 
I feel myself much bounden to you, Os- 
wald : 
^Tis a strange letter this I — You saw hei 

write it ? 
Os7v. And saw the tears with which sht 

blotted it. 
Mar. And nothing less would satisiy 

him 1 
Osw. No less ; 

For that another in his Child's affection 
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, 
He seemed to quarrel with the very 

thought. 
Besides, I know not what "trange prejudice 
Is rooted in his mind ; this Band of ours, 
Which you've collected for the noblest 

ends, 
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed 
To guard the Innocent — he calls us " Out' 

laws ; " 
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts 
This garb was taken up that indolence 
Might want no cover, and rapacity 
Be better fed. 

Mar. Ne'er may I own the heart 

That cannot feel for one helpless as he is. 
Oszv. Thou know'st me for a Man not 

easily moved, 
Yet was I grievously provoked to think 
Of what I witnessed. 

Mar. This day will suffice 

To end her wrongs. 

Osw. But if the blind Man's tale 

Should yet be true .'' 

Mar. Would it were possible I 

Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, 
And others who survived the wreck, beheld 
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves 
Upon the coast of Cyprus.'' 

Osw. Yes, even sOj 

And I had heard the like before : in sooth 
The tale of this his quondam Barony 
Is cunningly devised ; and, on the back 
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fair 
To make the proud and vain his tributaries^ 
And stir the pulse of lazy charity. 
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; 
Wc, neighbors of the Esk and Tweed : 'tis 

much 

The Arch-impostor 

Mar. Treat him tjently, Oswald- 

Though I have never seen his tace, nMr 

thinks, 



POEMS WRITTEN /N YOUTTf. 



45 



There cannot come a day when I shall 
cease 

To love him. I remember, when a Boy 

Ot scarcely seven years' growth, beneath 
the Ehn 

That casts its shade over our villasje scliool, 

'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea 

Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, 

Till all the band of play-mates wept to 
gather ; 

And that was the beginning of my love. 

And, through all converse of our later 
years, 

An image of this old Man still was pres- 
ent, 

When I had been most happy. Pardon 
me 

If this be idly spoken. 

Osiv. See, they come. 

Two Travellers ! 
Mar (/oijifs) The woman is Idonea. 
Ostv. And leading Herbert 
Mar. We must let them pass — 

This thicket will conceal us. 

[ They step aside. 

Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind. 

/don. Dear Father, you sigh deeply ; 

ever since 
We left the willow shade by the brook-side. 
Your natural breathing has been troubled 

Her. Nay, 

You are too fearful ; yet must I confess, 
Our march ot yesterday had better suited 
A firmei step than mine. 

Idon. That dismal Moor — 

In spite of all the larks that cheered our 

path, 
J never can forgive it : but how steadily 
You paced along, when the bewildering 

moonlight 
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic 

shape ! — 
I thought the Convent never v/ould appear ; 
It seemed to move away from us : and yet, 
That you are thus the fault is mine ; for the 

air 
Was soft arid warm, no dew lay on the 

grass, 
And midway on the waste ere night had 

fallen 
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with 

sods — 
A miniature ; belike some Shepherd-boy, 
Who might have found a nothing-doing 

hour 



Heavier than work, raised it : within tha» 

hut 
We might have made a kindly bed ot 

heath, 
And thankfully there rested side by side 
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited 

strength, 
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheer- 
ily, Father, — 
That staff of yours, I could almost have 

heart 
To fling 't away from you : you make no 

use 
Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me 

feel 
That you do press upon me. There — in 

deed 
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest 

awhile 
On this green bank, \^He sits down. 

Her. {after some time). Idonea, you are 

silent, 
And I d.vine the cause. 

/don. Do not reproach me : 

I pondered patiently your wish and will 
When I gave way to your request ; and 

now, 
When I behold the ruins of that face. 
Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope of 

light, 
And think that they were blasted for nay 

sake, 
The name of Marmaduke is blown away : 
Father, I would not change that sacred 

feeling 
For all this world can give. 

//er. Nay, be composed 

Few minutes gone a faintness overspread 
My frame, and I bethought me of two 

things 
I.ne'er bad heart to separate — my grave, 
And thee, my Child ! 

/do?i. Believe me, honored Sire ! 

'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy 

fancies, 
And you mistake the cause ; you hear the 

woods 
Resound with music ; could you see tlie 

sun, 
And look upon the pleasant face of Na- 
ture 

//er. I comprehend thee — I should be as 

cheerful 
As if we two were twins ; two songsters 

bred 
In the same nest, my spring-time one with 

thine. 



46 



POEMS WRTTTEN IN YOUTH. 



My fancies, fancies if they be, are such 

As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper 

source 
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit 
1 feci my strcns^th returning. — The bequest 
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive 
We have thus far adventured, will suffice 
To save thee from the extreme of penury ; 
But when thy father must lie down and die. 
Row wilt thou stand alone ? 

Idon. Is he not strong ? 

Is he not valiant ? 

Her. Am I then so soon 

Forgotten? have my warnings passed so 

quickly 
Out of thy mind ? My dear, my only, 

Child . 
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — 

This Marmaduke 

Idon. O could you hear his voice: 

Alas ! you do not know him. He is one 
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him 

with you) 
All gentleness and love. His face be- 
speaks 
A deep and simple meekness : and that 

Soul, 
Which with the motion of a virtuous act 
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, 
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean. 
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 
Her. Unhappy woman ! 
Idon, ^ Nay, It was my duty 

Thus much to speak ; but think not I for- 
get- 
Dear Father ! how coidd I forget and live — 
You and the story of that doleful night 
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost 

towers, 
You rushed into the murderous flames, re- 
turned 
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have 

told me, 
Clasping your infant Daughter to your 
heart. 
Her. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I 
gained the door, 
I caught her voice ; she threw her arms up- 
on me, 
I felt thy infant brother in her arms ; 
She saw my blasted face — a tide of soldiers 
That instant rushed between us, and I 
heard 
>sr last death-shriek, distinct among a 

thousand. 
Idon. Nay, Father, stop not ; let me 
hear it all. 



Her. Dear Daughter ! precious relic ol 
that time — 
For my old age, it doth remain with thet 
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast 

been told, 
That when on our return from Palestine, 
I found how my domains had been usurped, 
I took thet in my arms, and we began 
Our wanderings together. Providence 
At length conducted us to Rossland, — 

there, 
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger 
To take thee to her home— and for myself, 
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuth- 

bcrt's 
Supplied my helplessness with food and rai- 
ment, 
And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble 

Cot 
Where now we dwell.— For many years I 

bore 
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirm- 
ities 
Exacted thy return, and our reunion. 
I did not think that, during that long ab- 
sence, 
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, 
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, 
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, 
Doth prey alike on two distracted Coun- 

triesj 
Traitor to both. 

Idon. Oh, could you hear his voice 

I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, 
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. 

Enter a Peasant. 
Pea. Good morrow, Strangers ! If you 
want a Guide, 
Let me have leave to serve you ! 

Idon My Companion 

Hath need of rest ; the sight of Hut or 

Hostel 
Would be most welcome. 

Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained, 

You will look down into a dell, and there 
Will see an ash from which a sign -board 

hangs ; 
The house is hidden by the shade. Old 

Man, 
You seem worn out with travel — shall I 
support you ? 
Her. I thank you: but, a resting-place 
so near, 
'Twere wrong to trouble you. 

Pea. God speed you both. 

\Exit PeasMt. 



rOEAfS WRITTEN IN YOUTIf. 



47 



Her. Idonea, we inust part. He not 
alarmed — 
*Tis but for a few days — a tliought lias 
struck me. 
Idon. That I sl'.oukl leave you at this 
house, and thence 
Procetd alone. It shall bo so , for strength 
Would fail you ere our journey's end be 
reached. 

\Exit Herbert supported by Idonea. 
Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald. 

Mar. This instant will we stop him 

Osu<. r.e not hasty, 

For, sometimes, in despite of my convic- 
tion, 
lie tempted me to think the Story true ; 
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he 

said 
That savored of aversion to thy name 
Appeared the genuine color of his soul — 
Anxiety lest mischief should befall her 
After his death. 
Alar. I have been much deceived. 

Osw But sure he loves the Maiden, and 
never love 
Could find delight to nurse itself so 

strangely, 
Thus to torment her with inventions.' — 

death — 
There must be truth in this. 

Mar Truth in his story ! 

He must have felt it then, known what it 

was. 
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart 
Had been a tenfold cruelty. 

Osw, Strange pleasures 

Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! 
To see him thus provoke her tenderness 
With talcs of weakness and infirmity ! 
IM wager on his life for twenty years. 
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such 

a cause. 
Os7v. Why, this is noble I shake her off 

at once. 
Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. — 
A Man 
Who has so practised on the world's cold 

sense 
May well deceive his Child— what! leave 

her thus, 
A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 
'Tis but a word and then— — - 

Osw. Something is here 

More than we see, or whence this strong 

aversion ? 
Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy t-^les 



Have reached his car — you have had ene- 
mies. 
Mar. Enemies !— of his own coinage. 
Osw. That may be. 

But wherefore slight protection such as you 
Have power to yield! perhaps he looks 

elsewhere. — 
I am perplexed 
Mar What hast thou heard or seen ? 

Os'ur No- no — the thing stands clear of 
mystery ; 
(As you have said) he coins himself the 

slander 
With which he taints her ear; — for a plain 

reason ; 
He dreads the presence of a virtuous man 
Like you ; he knows your eye would search 

his Iieart, 
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds 
The punishment they merit. All is plain: 

It cannot be 

Mar. What cannot be.? 

Osit'. Yet that a Father 

Should in his love admit no rivalship, 
And torture thus the hcai t of his own 

Child 

Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! 
Osw Heaven forbid! — 

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — 
It struck me at the time—yet I believe 
I never should have tiiought of it again 
But for the scene which we by chance have 
witnessed. 
Mar. What is your meaning ? 
Osw. Two day's gone I saw, 

Though at a distance and he was disguised, 
Hovering round Herbert's door, a man 

whose figure 
Resembled much that cold voluptuary. 
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and 

he knows 
Where he can stab you deepest. 

Mar. Clifford never 

Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage 

door — 
It could not be. 

Os7v. And yet I now remember, 

That, when your praise was warm upon my 

tongue. 
And the blind Man was told how you had 

rescued 
A maiden from the ruffian violence 
Of this same Clifford, he became impatient 
And would not hear me. 

Afar. No — it cannot be— 

I dare not trust myself withfuch a thought— 



48 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



'ii.\. whence this strange aversion ? You are 
a man 

Not used to rash conjectures 

Os7v. If you deem it 

A thing worth further notice, we must act 
With caution, sift the matter artfully. 

\Excunt Makmauukk ««^/ Oswald. 

Scene, the door of the Hostel 

Herbert, Idonea, and Host. 

Her. {seated). As I am dear to you, re- 
member, Child ! 
This last request. 

Idon. You know me. Sire ; farewell ! 

Her. And arc you going then .? Come, 

come, Idonea, 
Wl- must not part, — I have measured many 

a league 
When these old limbs had need of rest, — and 

now 
J will not play the sluggard. 
Idon. Nay, sit down. 

{Turning to Host. 
Good Host, such tendance as j'ou would ex- 
pect 
From your own Children, if yourself were 

sick. 
Let this old Man find at your hands ; poor 

Leader, [Looking at the c 'og. 

We soon shall meet again. If Uiou neglect 
This charge of thine, then ill befail thee ! — 

Look, 
The little fool is loth to stay behind. 
Sir tlost ! by all the love you bear to 

courtesy, 
Take care of him, and feed the truant well. 
Host. Fear not, 1 will obey you ; — but 

One so young, 
And One so fair, it goes against my heart 
That you should travel unattended, Lady ! — 
I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad 
Shall squire you, (would it not be better. 

Sir?) 
And for less fee than I would let him run 
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. 
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too 

long your guard 
Mot to have learnt to laugh at little fears. 
'fi\\y, if a wolf should leap from out a 

thicket, 
A look of mine would send him scouring 

back. 
Unless I differ from the thing I am 
Wlien you are by my side. 



Her. Idonea, wolves 

Are not the enemies tliat move my fears. 
Ido)i. No more, I pray, of this. Three 
days at farthest 
Will bring me back — protect him, Saints — 
farewell ! [Exit Idonea, 

Host. 'Tis never drought with us — St. 
Cuthbeit and his Pilgrims, 
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of com- 
fort : 
Pity the Maiden did not wait a while ; 
She could not, Sir, have failed of company. 
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call 

her back. 
Host {calling). Holla! 
Her. No, no, the business must be 
done. — 
What means this rioious noise.'' 

Host. The villagers 

Are flocking in — a wedding festival — 
That's all — God save you, Sir. 
Enter Oswald. 
Osw. Ha! as I live, 

The Baron Herbert. 
Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! 

Oszv. So far into your journey ! on my 
life. 
You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare 
you? 
Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. 

And you, Sir .'' 
Osiv. I do not see Idonea. 
Her. Dutiful Girl, 

She has gone before, to spare my weariness. 
But what has brought you hither t 

Osiv. A slight affair. 

That will be soon despatched. 

Her. Did Marmaduke 

Receive that letter ? 

Osiv. Be at peace. — The tie 

Is broken, you will hear no more of him. 
Her. That is true comfort, thanks a 
thousand times !— 
That noise ! — would I had gone with her as 

far 
As the Lord Clifford's Castle : I liave heard 
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed 
Compassion for me. His influence is great 
With Henry, our good King ; — the Baron 
might [Court. 

Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at 
No matter — he's a dangerous Man. — That 

noise ! — 
'Tis too chsorderly for sleep or rest. 
Idonea would have fears for mc. — the Coo- 
vent 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



49 



Wil] give me quiet lodging. You h-ave a 

boy, good Host, 
And lie must lead me back. 

Os^v. You are most lucky ; 

I have been waiting in the wood hard by 
For a companion — here he comes ; our 
journey 

Enter Marmaduke. 
Lies on your way ; accept us as your Guides. 
Her. Alas ! 1 creep so slowly. 
Osxv. Never fear : 

We'll not complain of that. 

Her. My limbs are stiff 

And need repose. Could you but wait an 

hour? 

Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me lead 

you in, 

And, while you take your rest, think not 

of us ; 
We'll stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. 
\Condiicis Herbert into the house. 
Exit Marmaduke. 

Enter Villagers. 
Osxv. {to himself coming out of the Hostel.) 
1 have prepared a most apt Instru- 
ment — 
The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering 

somewliere 
About tills ground; she hath a tongue well 

skilled, 
By mingling natural matter of her own 
With ail the daring fictions I have taught 

her. 
To win belief, such as my plot requires. 

{Exit Oswald. 
Enter more Villagers, a Musician among 
them. 
Host (to them). Into the court, my 
F'riend, and jierch yourself 
Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, 
Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry 

thoughts. 
Are here, to send the sun into the west 
More speedily than you belike would wish. 

Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the 
//fj/'f/— Marmaduke and Oswald 
Cfitering. 
Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive 
ourselves : 
When first I saw him sitting there, alone, 
It struck upon my heart I know not how. 
Os7v. To-day will clear up all. — You 
marked a Cottage, 



That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock 
By the brook-side : it is the abode of one, 
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, 
Who soon grew weary of her ; but, alas ! 
What she had seen and suffered turned her 

brain. 
Cast off by her Betrayer she dwells alone. 
Nor moves her hands to any needful work 
She eats her food which every day the peas- 
ants 
Bring to her hut ; and so the Wretch has 

lived 
Ten years ; and no one ever heard her 

voice ; 
But every night at the first stroke of twelve 
She quits her house, and, in the neighboring 

Churchyard 
Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm. 
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and 

one- 
She paces round and round an Infant's 

grave, 
And in the churchyard sod her feet have 
worn 

A hollow ring ; they say it is knee-deep 

Ah ? what is here ? 

A female Beggar rises 7ip, rubbing her eyes 
as if in sleep — a Child tn her arms. 
Beg. Oh ! Gentlemen, I thank you ; 

I've had the saddest dream that ever trou- 
bled [Babe 
The heart of living creature. — My poor 
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread 
When I had none to give him ; whereupon, 
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, 
Which pleased him so, that he was hushed 

at once : 
When, into one of those same spotted bellt 
A bee came darting, which the Child witn 

joy 
Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, 
And suddenly grew black, as he would die. 
Mar. We have no time for this, my bab- 
bling Gossip ; 
Here's what will comfort you. 

[ Gives her money. 

Beg. Tlie S.iints reward you 

For this good deed ! — Well, Sirs, this passed 

away ; 
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, 
Trotting alone along the beaten road. 
Came to my child as by my side he slept 
And, fondling, licked his face, then on k 

sudden 
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his 
head : 



50 



POEMS Pf/R/TTEM IN- YorTFi 



But here he is \kisstng the Chzld], it must 

have been a dream. 
Osw. Wlieii next iiichned to sleep, take 

my advice, 
\i\i\ put your head, good Woman, under 

cover. 
Beg Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if 

you knew 
What life is this of ours, how bleep will 

master 
/he weary-worn. — You gentlefolk have got 
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be 
A stone tiian what 1 am, — But two nights 

gone, 
The darkness overtook me — wind and rain 
Beat hard upon my head — and yet 1 saw 
A glow-worm, through the covert of the 

furze, 
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky : 
At which 1 half accused the God in Hea- 
ven — 
Yon must forgive me. 

Os7u. Ay, and if you think 

The Fairies are to blame, and you should 

chide 
if our favorite saint — no matter — this good 

day 
Has made amends. 

Beg. Thanks to you both ; but, O sir ! 
How would you like to travel on whole 

hours 
As I have done, my eyes upon the ground. 
Expecting still, I knew not how, to find 
A piece of money glittering through the 

dust. 
Afar. This woman is a prater. Pray, 

good Lady ! 
Do vou tell fortunes ? 

Scg. Oh Sir, you are like tlie rest. 

This Little-one — it cms me to the heart — 
Wi?Il ! they might turn a beggar from their 

doors, [Babe 

P.ut there are Mothers who can see the 
Here at my breast, and ask me where I 

bought it . 
This they can do, and look upon my face — 
But you. Sir, should be kinder. 

Mar. Come hither, Fathers, 

And learn what nature is from this poor 

Wretch i 
Beg. Ay, Sir. there's nobody tliat feels 
for us. 
Why now — but yesterday I overtook 
A blind old Grayheard and accosted him, 
I'th' name of all the baints, and by the 

Mais 



He should have used me better! — Charity! 
If ycHi can melt a rock, he is your man ; 
But I'll be even with him — here again 
Have 1 been waiting for him. 

Osw. Well, but softly. 

Who is it that hath wronged you ? 

Beg. Mark you me 

I'll point him out; — a Maiden is his guide, 
Lovely as Sprmg's first rose : a little dog, 
'J'ied by a woollen cord, moves on before 
With look as sad as he were dumb ; the cur, 
1 owe him no ill will, but in good snoth 
He does his Master credit. 

Mar. As I live, 

'Tis Herbert and no other! 

Beg. 'Tis a feast to see him, 

Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent. 
And long beard white with age — yet ever- 
more. 
As if he were the only Saint on earth, 
He turns his face to heaven. 

Osw. But why so violei 

Against this venerable Man ? 

^Beg. I'll tell you : 

He has the very hardest heart on earth ; 
I had as lief turn to the Friar's school 
And knock for entrance, in mid lioliday. 

Mar. But to your story. 

Beg. 1 was saying, Sir- 

Well! — he has often spurned me like a toad 
But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last 
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, 
And begged a little aid for charity : 
But he was snappish as a cottage cur. 
Well then, tays I — I'll out with it ; at which 
1 cast a look upon the Girl, and felt 
As if my heart would burst ; and so I kf. 
him. 

Os7v. I think, good Woman, you are tlic 
very person 
Whom, but some few days past, I saw .i 

Eskdale, 
At Herbert's door. 

Beg. Ay ; and if truth were known 

I have good business there. 

Osw. 1 met you at the thresJiold, 

And he seemed angry. 

Beg. Angry ! well he might; 

And'long as I can stir I'll dog him. — Vo& 

terday. 
To serve me so, and knowing that he ewes 
The best of all he has to me and mine. 
But 'tis all over now. — That good old Lady 
Has left a power of riches ; and I say it. 
If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave 
Shall give me half. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Osw. What's this ? — I fear, good Woman, 
You have been insolent. 

Bf£^. And there's the Baron, 

I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. 

Osiv. How say you ? in disguise ? — 

Afar. But whafs your business 

With Herbert or his Daughter? 

Beg. Daughter ! truly — 

But how's the day ? — I fear, my little Boy 
We've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have you 
seen him ? \Oj[fers toi;,o. 

Mar. 1 must have more ot this ; — you 
shall not stir 
An inch, till 1 am answered. Know you 

aught 
That doth concern this Herbert ? 

Beg. You are provoked. 

And will misuse me. Sir ! 

Afar. No triflin;^, Woman ! — 

Osw. You are safe a-s in .i sanctuary ; 
Speak. 

Afar. Speak ! 

Beg. He is a most hard-hearted Man. 

Afar. Your life is at my mercy. 

Beg. Do not harm me, 

And 1 will tell you all ! — You know not, 

Sir, 
What strong temptations press upon the 
Poor. 

Osiv. Speak out. 

Beg. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. 

Osw. Nay, but speak out ! 

Beg. He flattered me, and said 

What harvest it would bring us both ; and so, 
1 parted with the Child. 

Afar. Parted with wljom ? 

Beg. Idonea, as he calls her ; but the Girl 
Is mine. 

Afar. Yours, Woman ! are you Herbert's 
wife ? 

Beg. Wife, Sir ! his wife — not I ; my 
husband, Sir, 
Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter 
We've weathered out together. My poor 

Gilfred ! 
He has been two years in his grave. 

Afar. Enough. 

Osw. We've solved the riddle — Miscreant! 

Afar. Do you. 

Hood Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait 
Vi'T my return ; be sure you shall have 
I'lstice. 

Osw. A lucky woman ! go, you have done 
good service. ^Aside. 

Mar. {to himself). Eternal praises on 
the power that saved her I — 



Osw. {gives her motley). Here's for your 
little boy — and when you christen him 
ril be his Godfather. 

Beg. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. 

In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely 

owns 
.\ dog that does not know me. — These good 

Folks, ' 
For love of God, I must not pass their doors ; 
But I'll be back with my best speed : for 

you — 
God bless and thank you both, my gentle 
Masters. {Exit Beggar. 

Afar, {to himself). The cruel Viper ! — 
Poor devoted Maid, 
Now I do love thee. 

Osw. I am thunderstruck. 

Afar Where is she— holla! 

{Calling to the Beggar, who returtis , 
he looks at her stedfastly. 

You arc Idonea's Mother?— 
Nay, be not terrified — it does me good 
To look upon you. 

Osiv. {interrupting.) In a peasant's 
dress 
You saw, who was it ? 

Beg. Nay, I dare not speak 

He is a man, if it should come to his cars 
I never shall be heard of more. 

Osw. Lord Clifford? 

Beg. What can I do? believe me, gentlo 

Sirs, 

I love 1 r, though I dare not call her 

da ter. 

Osw. Lord Clifford— did you see him 

talk with Herbert ? 
Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the great 
oak 
At Herbert's door — and when he stood be- 
side 
The blind Man — at the silent Girl he looked 
With such a look — it makes me tremble, Sir, 
To think of it. 

Osw. Enough ! you may depart, 

Mar. {to himself). Father ! — to Goc 
himself we cannot give 
.\ holier name ; and, under such a mask, 
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, 
To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — 
Oswald, the firm foundation of my life 
Is going from under me; these strange dis 

coveries — 
Looked at from every point of fear or liopei 
Duty, or love— involve, I feel, my ruin. 



52 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOL/Tfr. 



ACT II. 

Scene, A Chamber in the Hostel— Os- 
WAiD alone, rising from a Table on 
which he had been writing. 

Osw. They chose ///w for their Chief! — 

what covert part, 
He, in tlie preference, modest Youth, might 

take, 
I neither know nor care. The insult bred 
More of contempt than hatred ; both are 

flown ; 
That citlier e'er existed is my shame : 
'Twas a dul! spark — a most unnatural fire 
That died the moment the air breathed upon 

It. 
— These fools of feeling are mere birds of 

winter 
That haunt some barren island of the north, 
Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his 

hand. 
They think it is to feed them. I have left 

liim 
To solitary meditation ; — now 
For a few swilling j^lirases, and a flash 
Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, 
And he is mine forever — here lie comes. 

Enter Mahmaduke. 

Mar. These ten years she has moved her 
lips all day 
And never speaks ! 

Os7v. Who is it .? 

Mar. 1 have seen her. 

Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of tliat ragged 
homestead, 
Her whom tiie Monster, Clifford, drove to 
madness. 
Mar. I met a peasant near tlie spot ; he 
told me. 
These ten years she "had sate all day alone 
Within those empty walls, 

Osiv. I loo have seen her ; 

Chancing to pass this way some six months 

gone. 
At midnight, I betook me to the Church- 
yard : 
The moon shone clear, the air was still, so 

stm 

The trees were silent as the graves beneath 

them. 
Long did I watch, and saw he-r pacing 
Upon the self-same spot, still round and 

round. 
Her lips forever moving. 
Mar. At her door 



Rooted I stood : for, looking at the womaa, 
I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea, 

Osw. But the pretended Father 

Mar. Earthly law 

Measures not crimes like his. 

Osw. We rank not, happily. 

With those who take the spirit of their rule 
From that soft class of devotees who feel 
Reverence for life so deeply that they spare 
The verminous brood, and cherish what tliey 

spare 
While feeding on their bodies. W«uld that 

Idonea 
Were present, to the end that we might hear 
What she can urge in his defence ; she loves 
him. 
Mar. Yes, loves him ; 'tis a trutb, that 
multiplies 
His guilt a thousand-fold. 

Osw. 'Tis most perplexing ; 

What must be done ? 

Mar. We will conduct hcr.liither ; 

Tliese walls shall witness it — from first to 

last 
He shall reveal himself. 

Osw. Happy are we, 

Wlu) live in these disputed tracts, thart own 
No law but what rach man makes for him- 
self . 
Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. 
Mar. Let us begone and bring her 
hither ;— -iiere 
The truth shall be laid open, liis guilt proved 
Before her face. The rest be left to me. 
Osw. You will be firm : but though we 
well may trust 
The issue to the justice of the cause, 
Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, 
Yours is no common life. Self-stationed 

here 
Upon these savage confines, we have seen 

you 
Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy 

■ seas 
That oft havo, checked their fury it youi 

bidding. 
'Mid the deep holds of Sol way's mossy 

waste, 
Your single virtue has transformed a Band 
Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 
Of peace and order. Aged men with tears 
Have blessed their steps, the fatherless re 

tire 
For shelter to their banners. But it is. 
As you must needs have dec))ly felt, it is 
In darkness and in tempest that we seek 
The majesty of Him who rules the world 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



53 



Benevolence, that has not heart to use 
The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, 
Becomes at last weak and contemptible. 
Voiir generous qualities have won due 

praise, 
But vigorous Spirits look for something 

more 
Than Youth's spontaneous products ; and 

to-day 
You will not disappoint them ; and here- 
after^ 

Mar. You are wasting words ; hear me 
then, once for all : 
You arc a Man — and therefore, if compas- 
sion, 
Which to our kind is natural as life, 
i'.c known unto you, you will love this 

Woman, 
Even as 1 do ; but I should loathe the light, 
If 1 could think one weak or partial feel- 
ing 

Osw. You will forgive me 

Alar. If I ever knew 

My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 
*Tis at this moment. — Oswald, I have loved 
To be the friend and father of the oppressed, 
A comforter of sorrow ; — there is some- 
thing 
Which looks like a transition in my soul, 
And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. 
Osw. Stoop for a monicnt ; 'tis an act of 
justice : 
And Where's the triumph if the delegate 
Must fall in the execution of his office ^ 
The deed is done — if you will have it so — 
Here where we stand — that tribe of vulgar 

wretches 
(You saw them gathering from the festival) 

Rush in — the villains seize us 

Mar. Seize ! 

Osw. Yes, they — 

Men who are little given to sift and weigh — 
Would wreak on us the passion of the mo- 
ment. 
Mar. The cloud will soon disperse — fare- 
well — but stay, 
Thou wilt relate the story. 

Osw. Am I neither 

To bear a part in this Man's punishment, 
Nor be its witness ? 

Mar. I had many hopes 

That were most dear to me, and some will 

bear 
To be transferred to thee. 

Osw. When I'm dishonored ! 

Mar. I would preserve thee. How may 
this be done ? 



Osw. By showing that you look beyond 

the instant. 
A few leagues hence we shall have open 

ground, 
And nowhere upon earth is place so fit 
To look upon the deed. Before we enter 
The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling 

rock 
The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft 
Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom, 
And very superstition of the place, 
Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee 
Would there perhaps have gathered the 

fust fruits 
Of this mock Father's guilt. 

Enter Host conducting Herbert. 

Host. The Baron Herbert 

Attends your pleasure. 

Osw. {to Host). W^e are ready — 

{to Heriert) Sir! 
I hope you are refreshed. — 1 have just 

written 
A notice for your Daughter, that she may 

know 
What is become of you. — You'll sit down 

and sign it ; 
'Twill glad her heart to see her father's sig- 
nature. 

[Gives the letter he had written. 
Her. Thanks for your care. 

[Sits doiv/i and writes. Exit Host. 
Osxv. {aside to Marmaduke). I'crhaps 
it would be useful 
That you too should subscribe your name. 
[Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — then 
writes — examines the letter eagerly. 
Mar. 1 car.not leave this paper. 

[He pnts it up, agitated. 

Osw. {aside). Dastard ! Come. 

[Marmaduke goes towards Herbert 

and supports him — Marmaduke 

tremblingly beckons Oswald to take 

his place. 

Mar. {as he g'uits Hkrbkrt). There is 

a palsy in his limbs — he shakes. 
[Exeunt Oswald and Herbert— Mar- 
maduke following. 

Scene changes to a Wood— a Group of 
Pilgrims^ and Idonea with them. 

First Pil. A grove of dai^ker and mor« 
lofty shade 
I Tiever saw. 
Sec. Pil. The na»isic of the birds 



'54 



FORMS WRITTEN TV YOUTH. 



Drops deadened from a roof so thick with 
leaves. 
Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart 

leap up with joy. 
Idon. I scarcely can believe it. 
Old Pil. Myself, I heard 

The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter 

Which purported it was the royal ]->lcasure 

The Baron Herbert, who, as was supi^ osed, 

Had taken refuge in this neighborhood. 

Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, 
Lady, 

Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I re- 
turned 

From Palestine, and brought with me a 
heart, 

Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, 
comfort, 

I met your Father, then a wandering out- 
cast . 

He had a guide, a Shepherd's boy ; but 
grieved 

He was that One so young should pass his 
youth 

In such sad service ; and he parted with 
him. 

We joiped our tales of wretchedness to- 
gether, 

And begged our daily bread from door to 
door. 

I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! 

For once you loved me. 

Idon. You shall back with me 

And see your Friend again. The good old 
Man 

Will be rejoiced to greet you. 

Old Ptl. It seems but yesterday 

That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with 
travel, 

In a deep wood remote from any town. 

A cave that opened to the road presented 

A friendly shelter, and we entered in. 
Idoti. And 1 was with you .'' 
Old Pil. If indeed 'twas you — 

But you were then a tottering Little-one — 

We sate us down. The sky grew dark and 
darker ; 

I struck my fiint, and built up a small fire 

With njtten boughs and leaves, such as the 
winds 

Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 

Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the 
woods : 

Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth 

And we were comforted, and talked of com- 
fort j 

But 'tvras an angry night, and o'er our heads 



The thunder rolled in peals that would hav| 

made 
A sleeping m.in uneasy in his bed. 

Lady, you have need to love your Father 
His voice— methinks I hear it now, his 

voice 
When, after a broad flash that filled the 

cave. 
He said to me, that he had seen his Child, 
A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) 
Revealed by lustre brought with it from 

Heaven ; 
And it was you, dear Lady 

Idon. God be praisedj 

That I have been his comforter till now , 
And will be so through every change of for- 
tune 
And every sacrifice his peace requires. — 
Let us be gone, with speed, that he may 

hear 
These joyful tidings from no lips but mm. 
\Exeunt Idonea and Filgrmis 

Scene, the Area of a half-ruined Castle 
— on one side the entrance to a diaia^con 
— Oswald and Marmaduke facing 
backwards and forwards. 

Mar: 'Tis a wild night. 

Osw. I'd give my cloak and bonnet 

For sight of a warm fire. 

Mar. The wind blows keen; 

My hands are numb. 

Osw, Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. 

[^Blowing his fingers. 

1 long for news of our brave Comrades ; 

Lacy 
Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their 

dens 
If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. 
Mar. I think I see a second range of 
Towers; 
This castle has another Area — come. 
Let us examine it. 

Osw. 'Tis a bitter night; 

I hope Idonea is well housed. That horse 

man, 
Who at full speed swept by us where tht 

wood 
Roared in the tempest, was within an ace 
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge; 
That would have been i^ vile mischance. 
Mar. It would. 

Osw. Justice had been most cruelly de- 
frauded. 
Mar. Most cruelly. 
Osw, As up the steep we clom\^ 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



55 



1 saw a distant fire in the north-east ; 

I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : 

With proper speed our quarters may be 

gained 
To-morrow evening. 

\Looks restlessly towards the month 
of the dungeon. 
Mar. When, upon the plank, 

( had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice 

blessed me : 
Vou could not hear, for the foam beat the 

rocks 
Witlj deafening noise, — the benediction fell 
Back on himself ; but clianged into a curse. 
Osiv. As well indeed it might. 
Mar. And this you deem 

The fittest place 1 

Osw. {aside). He is growing pitiful. 
Mar. (listening). What an odd moaning 

that is !— 
Osw. Mighty odd 

The wind should pipe a little, while we 

stand 
Cooling our heels in this way ! — I'll begin 
And count the stars. 
Mar. (still listening). That dog of his, 
you are sure, 
Could not come after us — he must have 

perished ; 
The torrent would have dashed an oak to 

splinters. 
You said you did not like his looks — that he 
Would trouble us ; if he were here again, 
I swear the sight of him would quail me 

more 
Than twenty armies. 

Os7t'. How ? 

A/ar. The old blind Man, 

Wiiei) you had told him the mischance, was 

troubled 
Even to the shedding of some natural tears 
Into the torrent over which he hung, 
Listening in vain. 
Osw. He has a tender heart ! 

[Oswald ^<?r^ to go down into the 
dungeon. 
Afar How now, what mean you ? 
Osw. Truly, 1 was going 

To waken our stray Baron. Were there 

not 
A farm or dwelling-house within five 

leagues, 
We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, 
Three good round years, for playing the fool 

here 
In such a night as this. 
Alar, Stop, step. 



Osw. Perhaps. 

You'd better like we should descend to- 

getiier. 
And lie down by his side — what say you to 

it.? 
Three of us — we should keep each other 

warm : 
I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend 
Shall not disturb us ; further I'll not en- 
gage ; 
Come, come, for manhood's sake ! 

Mar. These drowsy shiverings, 

This mortal stupor which is creeping over 

me. 
What do they mean .? were this my single 

body 
Opposed to armies, not a nerve would 

tremble : 
Why do 1 tremble now ? — Is not the depth 
Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of 

thought ^ 
And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judg- 
ment. 
Something I strike upon which turns my 

mind 
Back ou herself, I think, again — my breast 
Concentres all the terrors of tlie Universe ; 
1 look itt him and tremble like a child. 
Os7u. Is it possible ? 

Afar. One thing you noticed not : 

Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder 
Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing 

force. 
This is a time, said he, when guilt niay 

shudder ; 
But there's a Providence for them who walk 
In helplessness, when innocence is with 

them. 
At this audacious blasphemy, I thought 
The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the 
air. 
Osiv. Why are you not the man you were 
t!iat moment ? 

{He draivs Marmaduke to the 
dungeon. 
Mar. You say he was asleep, — look at 
thi^rm. 
And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. 
Oswald, Oswald ! {Leans upon Oswald. 
Osw. This is some sudden seizure I 

Mar. A most strange laintness, — will you 
hunt me out 
A draught of water ? 

Osw. Nav, to see you thus 

Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try 
To gain the torrent's brink. 

{Exit Oswald. 



56 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



A-^zr. {after a pause). It seems an age 

Siuce that Man left me — No, I am not lost. 

Her. {at the mouth of the dungeon). 

Give me your hand ; where are you, 

Friends ? and tell me 

How goes the night. 

Mar. 'Tis hard to measure time, 

In such a weary night, and such -" place. 
Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend 

Oswald. 
Mar. .\ minute past, he went to fetch a 
draught 
Of water from the torrent. ■ 'Tis, you'll say, 
A cheerless beverage. 

Her. How good it was in you 

To stay br;hind ! — Hearing at first no 

answer, 
I was alarmed. 

Mar, No wonder ; this is a place 

That well may put some fears into your 
heart. [comfort. 

Her. Why so ? a roofless rock had been a 
Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were ; 
And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks 
To make a bed for me !— My Girl will weep 
When she is told of it. 

Mar. This Daughter of yours 

Is very dear to you. 

Her. Oh ! but you are young ; 

Over your head twice twenty years must 

roll, [pain. 

With all their natural weight of sorrow and 

Ere can be known to you how much a 

Father 
May love his Child. 
Mar. Thank you, old Man, for this ! 

, {Aside. 
Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a use- 
less Man ; 
Kindly have you protected me to-night, 
And no return have I to make but prayers ; 
May you in age be blest with such a daugh- 
ter ! 
When from the Holy Land I had returned 
Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, 
A. wretched Outcast — but this strain of 

thou gilt 
Would lead me to talk fondly. 

Mar. Do not fear ; 

Your words are precious to my ears ; go on. 
Her. You will forgive me, but my heart 
runs over. 
When my old Leader slipped mto the flood 
And perished, what a piercing outcry you 
Sent after him. I have loved you ever 

since. 
?fou start — where arc we ? 



Mar. Oh, there is no danger 

The cold blast struck me. 
Her. ' Twas a foolish question. 

Mar. But when you were an Outcast ?— 
Heaven is just ; 
Your piety would not miss its due reward ; 
The little Orphan then would be your sue 

cor, 
And do good service, though she knew it 
not. 
Her. I turned me from the dwellings of 
my Fathers, 
Where none but those who trampled on my 

rights 
Seemed to remember me. To the wide 

world 
1 bore her, m my arms , her looks won 

pity; 
She was my Raven m the wilderness, 
And brought me food. Have 1 not cause 
to love her ? 
Mar. Yes. 
Her. More than ever Parent loved a 

Child ? 
Mar. Yes, yes. 

Her. I will not murmur, merciful God! 
I will not murmur , blasted as 1 have been, 
Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daugh- 
ter's voice, 
And arms to fold her to my heart Sub- 
missively 
Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. 

Enter Oswald. 

OsTv. Herbert ! — confusion ! (aside). 

Here it is, my friend, 

[Presents the Horn. 
A charming beverage for you to carouse. 
This bitter night. 

Her. Ha ! Oswald, ten bright crosses 

I would have given, not many minutes 

gone. 
To have heard your voice. 

Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, 
Has been but comfortless ; and yet that 

place 
When the tempestuous wind first drove us 

hither, 
Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd bettei 

turn 
And under covert rest till break of day, 
Or till the storm abate. 
( To Marmauuke aside.) He has restored 

you. 
No doubt you have been nobly entertained ? 
But soft ! — how came he forth ? Th« 

Nightmare Conscience 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



57 



Has driven him out of harbor ? 

Mar. I believe 

^ou liave guessed right. 

Her. The trees renew their murmur . 
Come, let us house together. 

[Oswald conducts him to the dun- 
geon. 
Osw. {returns). Had I not 

..Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair 
To its most fit conclusion, do you think 
1 would so long have struggled with my 

Nature, 
And smothered all that's man in me ?— 
away ! — 

"^Looking tcnvards the dungeon. 
This man's the property of him who best 
Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a 

privilege ; 
It now becomes my duty to resume it. 

Mar. Touch not a finger 

Oszv. What then must be done ? 

Mar. Which way soe'er 1 turn, I am per- 
plexed. 
Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. 
The misery 
Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, tlie facts 
Did not admit of stronger evidence ; 
Twelve honest men, plain men, would set 

us right ; 
Their verdict would abolish these weak 
scruples. 
Mar. Weak 1 I am weak — there does my 
torment lie, 
Feeding itself 

Osw. Verily, when he said 

How his old heart would leap to hear her 

steps, 
You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. 
Mar. And never heard a sound so ter- 
rible 
\ Osw. Perchance you thmk so now ? 

Mar I cannot do it : 

Twice did I spring to grasp his wither'd 

throat, 
Wlicn such a sudden weakness fell upon 

me, 
1 could have dropped asleep upon his 
breast. 
Osw Justice — is there not thunder in 
the word ? 
Shall it be law to stab the petty robber 
Wlio aims but at our purse ; and shall this 

Parricide — 
Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonor 
Be worse than death) to that confiding Crea- 
ture 
"Whom he to mors than filial love and duty 



Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his 

purpose ? 
But you are fallen. 

Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — 

Murder — perhaps a.sleep, blind, old, alone, 
Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike the 
blow — 

Away ! away ! 

[Flings ajvay his sword. 
Osw. Nay, I have done with you 

We'll lead him to the Couvent. He shall 

live, 
And she shall love him. With unquestioned 

title 
He shall be seated in his Barony, 
And we too chant the praise of his good 

deeds. 
I now perceive we do mistake our masters, 
And most despise tlie men who best car. 

teach us: 
Henceforth it shall be said that bad men 

only 
Are brave : Clifford is brave ; and thst old 

Man 
Is brave. 

• [Takifig Marmaouke's sti'ord 
and gii'ing it to him. 
To Clifford's arms he would have led 
His Victim — haply to this desolate house. 
Mar. {advancing to the dungeon). It 

must be ended ! — 
Osw. Softly ; do not rouse him ; 

He will deny it to the last. He lies 
Within the Vault, a spear's length to the 
left. 

[Marmaduke descends to the dun- 
geon . 
{A/one.) The Villains rose in mutiny to 

destroy me : 
I could have quelled tlie Cowards, but this 

Stripling 
Must needs step in, and save my life. The 

look 
With which he gave the boon — I see it 

now ! 
The same that tempted me to loathe the 

gift.— 
For this old venerable Gray-beard — faith 
'Tis his own fault if he hatli got a face 
Which doth play tricks with tliem that look 

on it ; 
'Twas this that put it in my thoughts — that 

countenance — 
His staff — his figure- -Murder ! — what, ot 

whom ? 
We kill a worn-out horse, and who but 
women 



^ 



POEMS WRITTEN EV YOUTH. 



Sigh at the deed? Hew down a wither'd 

tree, 
And none look grave but dotards. He may 

live 
To thank me for tliis service. Rainbow 

arches, 
Higliways of dreaming passion, have too 

long, 
Young^ as he is, diverted wish and hope 
P'rom the unpretending ground we mortals 

tread^ — 
Then shatter the delusion, break it up 
And set him free. What follows ? I have 

learned 
That things will work to ends the slaves o' 

the world 
Do never dream of. I ha-'c been what he — 
This Boy — when hcecomes forth with bloody 

hands — 
Might envy, and am now, — but he shall 

know 
What I am now— 

[^Gocs and listens at the dungeon. 
Praying or parleying ? — tut ! 
Is he not eyeless? He has been half dead 

These fifteen years 

Enter female Beggar with two or three of 

her Confatiious. 
(Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak — what 

Thing art thou ? 
{Recognizes her.) Heavens ! my good 
friend ! [ To her. 

Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — 

Osw. {to her companions.) Begone, ye 
Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind 
And send ye dancing to the clouds, like 
leaves. [ They retire affrighted. 

Beg. Indeed, we meant no harm ; we 
lodge sometimes 
in this deserted Castle — / repent me. 

[Oswald goes to the dungeon — lis- 
tens — returns to the Beggar. 
Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless In- 
fant — keep 
Thy secret for its sake, or verily 
That wretclied life of thine shall be the 
forfeit. 
Beg. I do repent me, Sir : I fear the 
curse 
Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, 

sir 

Osw. Begone! 

Beg. {going) There is some wicked deed 

in hand : [Aside. 

Would 1 could find the old Man and his 

Daughter. Exit Beggar. 



Marmaduke rc-cntcrs from, ike dungeon. 

Osw. It is all over then : — your foolish 
fears 
Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and 

deed. 
Made quiet as he is. 

Mar. Why came you down? 

And when I felt your hand upon my arm 
And spake to you, why did you give no 

answer ? 
Feared you to waken him ? he must have 

been 
In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. 
There are the strangest echoes m that 
place ! 
Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day 

of doom. 
Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached 
the Spot, 
When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn 

As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at 
it. 
Osw. But after that ? 
Mar. The features of Idonea 

Lurked in his face 

Osw. Pshaw ! Never to these eyes 

Will retribution show itself again 
With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me 
To share your triumph ? 
Mar. Yes, her very look. 

Smiling in sleep 

Osiv. A pretty feat of Fancy 1 

Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent me 

to my prayers. 
Osw. Is he alive ? 

Mar. What mean you ? who alive ? 

Osw. Herbert ! since you will have it, 
Baron Herbert ; 
He who will gain his Scignory when 

Idonea 
Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he living .' 
Mar. The old Man in that dungeon is 

alive. 
Osiv. Henceforth, then, will I neveir ir 
camp or field 
Obey you more. Your weakness, to thr. 

Band, 
Shall be proclaimed : brave Men, they all 

shall hear it. 
You a protector of humanity ! 
Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 
Mar. 'Twas dark — dark as the grave 
yet did I see. 
Saw him— his face turned towards me; and 
I tell thee 



rOF.MS WRn'TKN IN YOUTH. 



59 



Idv)nea'.s filial coimlriKnir ■ \v:is tlure 
To baffle mc-it juit inc lo my leavers. 
Upwards I cast my eyes, and, throiigli a 

crevice, 
Beheld a star twinklinc; above my head. 
And, by the living God.. 1 could not flo it. 

S^Sinks exhausted. 

Osw. {lo himself). Now may 1 perish if 

this turn do more 

riian make me change mv course, 

( /') Marmadukf..) Dear Marmadukc, 

I\ly words were raslily spoken ; I recall 

them ; 
1 feel my error; shedding human blood 
Is T most serious thing. 

Afar. Not I alone, 

Thou too art deep in guilt. 

Os7V. We have indeed 

Been most presumptuous. Tliere is guilt 

in this, 

Else (ould so strong a mind have ever 

known [Heaven 

These trepidations ? Plam it is that 

Has marked out this foul Wretch as one 

whose crimes 
Must never come before a mortal judgment- 
seat, 
Or be chastised by mortal instruments. 
Afar. A thought that's worth a thousand 
worlds ! \^Gocs towards the duui^coji, 
Os-iu. I grieve 

i'hat, in my zeal, I have caused you so 
much pain. 
Afar. Think not of that ! 'tis over — we 

are safe. 
Os~a'. (as if to fiimself yet spcaJcing 
aloud). 

The truth is hideous, but how stifie it ! 

\Tiirning to Marmaduke. 

Give me your sword — nay, here are stones 

and fragments, 
The least of which would beat out a man's 

brains ; 
Or you might drive your head against that 

wall. 
Ko! this is not the place to hear the tale : 
vt should be told you pinioned in your bed. 
Or on some vast and solitary plain 
Blown to you from a trumpet. 

Mar. Why talk thus? 

Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast 
I cari- not : fear I have none, and cannot 

fear 

[ TJie sound of a horn is heard. 
That liorn again — 'Tis some one of our 

Troop ; 
What do they here ? Listen I 



Osic. What ! dogged /ike thieves ! 

Enter Walla( E and Lacy, &>c. 
Lacy. You are found at last, thanks to 
the vagrant Troop 
For not misleading us. 
Osw {looking at Wallace). That sulk- 
tic Graybcard — 
I'd rather sec my father's ghost. 

f^acy {to Marmaduke). My Captain, 
We come by order of the Hand. Belike 
You have not heard that Henry has at last 
Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent 

abroad 
His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate 
The genuine owners of such Lands and 
Baronies [seized. 

,As, in these long commotions, have been 
His Power is this way tending. It befits us 
To stand upon our guard, and with our 

swords 
Defend the innocent. 

Mar. Lacy 1 we look 

Put at the surfaces of things ; we hear 
Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, younp 

and old 
Driven out in troops to want and nakedness ' 
Then grasp our swords and rusli npon a cure 
'i'hat flatters us, because it asks not thought 
The deeper malady is better hid ; 
The world is poisoned at the heart. 

Laey. What mean you ? 

Wal. {U'fiosc eye fias beeii fixed suspicious- 
ly upon Oswald). Ay, what is it you 
mean t 
Mar. Harkee, my friends ;— 

^Appearing gay 
Were there a Man who, being weak and 

helpless 
And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, 

pressed 
By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, 
A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, 
Prattling upon his knee, to call hnu 

Father 

Lacy. Why, if his heart be tender, th?.r, 
oi^ence 
I could forgive him. 
Mar. {^oing on\ And should he make 
the Child 
An instrument of falsehood, should he teath 

her 
To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome 

light 
Of infant playfulness with piteous look?* 

Of misery that was not 

Lacy. Troth, 'tis htrd- 

)i\.^ in a world like ours— •• 



6o 



rOr.MS WRlTrTiN IN YOUTH. 



Afar, {changing his tone). This self- 
same Man — 
Even while he printed kisses on the cheek 
Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent 

tongue 
To lisp the name of father— could he look 
To the unnatural harvest of that time 
When he should give her up, a Woman 

grown, 
'I'll him who bid the highest in the market 
Oi foul pollution — 

Lacy. The whole visible world 

C'dutains not such a Monster ! 

Mar. For this purpose 

Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means 
Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of 

them : 
Should he, by tales which would draw tears 

from iron, 
Work on her nature, and so turn compassion 
And gratitude to ministers of vice, 
And make the sjiotless spirit of filial love 
Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim 

Doth soul and body 

IVai. 'Tis too horrible ; 

Oswald, what say you to it ? 

Lacy. ' Hew him down, 

And fling him to the ravens. 

Ma7'. But his aspect 

It is sr jicck, his countenance so venerable. 
Wai. (rvith an appearance of niisirnst). 

But how, what say you, Oswald.'' 
Lacy, {at the same jnoinent). Stab him, 

were it 
Before the Altar. 

Mar. What, if he were sick, 

Tottering upon the very verge of life, 

And old, and blind 

Lacy. Blind, say you ? 

Osiv. {coming forivaril). Are we men, 
K)y own we baby Spirits ? Genuine courage 
Is not an accidental quality, 
A thing dependent for its casual birth 
On opposition and impediment. 
Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats 

down 
The giant's strength ; and, at the voice of 

Justice, 
Spares not the worm. The giant and the 

worm — 
She weighs them in one scale. The wiles 

of womati. 
And craft of a^e, seducing reason, first 
Made weakness a protection, and obscured 
The moral shapes of things. His tender 

ones 
And helpless innocence — do they protect 



The infant lamb ? and shall the infirmities, 
Which have enabled this enormous Culprit 
To perpetrate his crimes,serve as a Sanctuary 
To cover him from punishment.'' Shame I — ■ 

Justice, 
Admitting no resistance, bends alike 
The feeble and the strong. She needs not 

here 
Her bonds and chains, which make tht. 

mighty feeble. 
— We recognize in this old Man a victim 
Prepared already for the sacrifice. 

Lacy. By heaven, his words are reason ! 
Osiv. Yes, my Friends, 

His countenance is meek and venerable ; 
And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!— 
I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish 
When my heart does not ache to think 

of it ! — 
Poor Victim I not a virtue under heaven 
But what was made an engine to ensnare 

thee : 
But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. 
Lacy. Idonea ! 
Wal. How! what? you Idonea? 

\^To Marmaduke. 

Mar. Mi TIC . 

But now no longer mine. You know Lord 

Clifi^ord; 
He is the Man to whom the Maiden — pure 
As beautiful, and gentle and benign. 
And in her ample heart loving even me- 
Was to be yielded up. 

Lacy. Now, by the head 

Of my own child, this Man must die ; my 

hand, 
A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine 
In his gray hairs ! — 

Mar. {to Lacy). I love th*^ Father in thee 
You know me. Friends ; I have i heart to 

feel, 
And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes 

me 
Or duty sanctions. 

Lacy. We will have ample justice. 

Who are we, Friends ? Do we not live on 

ground 
Where souls are self-defended, free to grow 
Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy 

wind ? 
Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which de- 
creed 
Tliis monstrous crime to oe laid open — here, 
Where Reason has an eye that she can use, 
And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp 
He sliall be led, and there, the Country 

round 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



€i 



All gathered to the spot, in open day 
Shall Nature be avenged. 

Osw. 'Tis nobly thought ; 

His death will be a monument for ages. 
Afar, {to Lacy). 1 thank you for that 

hint. He shall be brought 
Before the Camp, and would that best and 

wisest 
Of every country might be present. There, 
His crime shall be proclaimed ; and for the 

rest 
It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide : 
Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see 
That all is well prepared. 

Wal. We will obey you, 
(Aside). But softly ! we must look a little 

nearer. 
Aid?'. Tell where you found us. At some 

future time 
. will e.xplain the cause, [Exeiait. 



ACT III. 

Scene, t/ie door of the Hostel, a group of 
riigiims^^J bejore ; Idonea atid the 
Host among them. 

Host. Lady, you'll find your Father at the 

Convent 
As I have told you ! He left us yesterday 
With two Companions ; one of tiiem, as 

seemed. 
His most familiar friend. (Going). There 

was a letter 
Of winch I heard them speak, but that I 

fancy 
Has been orgottcn 
IdoH. (to Host). Farewell! 
Host. Gentle pilgrims, 

St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. 
\^ExeuiitlGou}£.\ and 'PxXgnms. 

Scene, a desolate Afoor. 

Oswald \alofie). 

Osw. Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, to 

the Camp. 

Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, 

That half a word should blow it to the 

winds I 
This last device must eno my work. — 

Methinks 
It were a pleasant pastime to construct 
A scale and table of belief — as thus — 
Two columns, one for passion, one for proof ; 
Ear'^ vises as the other falls : and first, 



Passion a unit and against us — proof — 
Nay, we must travel in another path. 
Or we're stuck fast forever; — pussion, thei^. 
Shall be a unit for us; proof — no, passion l' 
We'll not insult thy majesty by time, 
Person, and place — the where, the when, the 

how, 
And all particulars that dull brains require 
To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, 
They bow to, calling the idol,Demonstratioa 
A whipping to the Moralists who preach 
That misery is a sacred thing : for me, 
I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, 
Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's 

mind 
Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface, 
And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, 
He talks of a transition in his Soul, 
And dreams that he is happy. We dissect 
The senseless body,and why not the mirvd .?— 
These are strange sights— the mind of man, 

upturned. 
Is in all natures a strange spectacle ; 
In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I stop ? 
No.— Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, 

but then 
They have no substance. Pass but a few 

minutes, 
And something shall be done which Memory 
May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at 

work. 

Enter Marmawke, from behind. 
Osw. (turning to meet him). But listen, 

for my peace 

Alar. Why, I believe you. 

Osw. But hear the proofs 

Afar. Ay, prove that when two peas 

Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then 
Be larger than the peas— prove this — 'twere 

matter 
Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream 
It even could be otherwise I 

Osrv. Last night 

Wlien I returned with water from the brook. 
I overheard the Villains— every word 
Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart 
Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Mao 
Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, 
Who on her journey must proceed alone, 
Under pretence of violence, be seized. 
She IS,'' continued tlic detested Slave, 
'' She is right willing — strange if she were 

not ! — 
They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man ; 
But, taith, to see him in his silken tunic, 
Flitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, 
There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid 



a 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



That could withstand it. True," con- 
tinued he, 
" When we arranged the affair, she wept a 

httle 
(Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) 
And said, ' My Father he will have it so.' " 
Mar. I am your hearer. 
Osw. This I caught, and more 

That may not be retold to any ear. 
The obstinate bolt of a small iron door 
Detained them near the gateway of the 

Castle. 
By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths 
Of flowers were in their hands, as if de- 
signed 
For festive decoration ; and they said. 
With brutal laughter and most foul allusion. 
Thac they should share the banquet with 

their Lord 
And his new Favorite. 

Mar. Misery !— 

Oszv I knew 

How you would be disturbed by this dire 

news, 
And therefore chose this solitary Moor, 
Here to impart the tale, of which, Jast night, 
I strove to ease my mind, when our two 

Comrades, 
Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon 

us. 
Mar. Last night, when moved to lift the 

avenging steel, 
I did ix'lieve all tilings were shadows — yea, 
Living or dead all things were bodiless, 
( )r but the mutual mockeries of body, 
'Vill that same star summoned me back 

again. 
Now i could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh 

Fool! 
To let a creed, built in the heart of things, 
Disolve before a twinkling atom I — Oswald, 
1 could fetch lessons out of wiser schools 
Than you have entered, were it worth the 

pains 
Vj»ung as I am, I might go forth a teacher, 
(\iid you should see how deeply 1 could 

reas(jn 
Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends ; 
Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects ; 
Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. 

Osw. You take it as it merits 

Mar. One a King, 

General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, 
Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground 
Witii carcases, in lineament and shape 
\nd substance, nothing differing from Ins 

own, 



But that they cannot stand up of then* 

selves , 
Another sits i* th' sun, and by the hour 
Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one 
We call, and scorn the other as Time's 
spendthrift ; [ground 

But have they not a world of common 
lo occupy — both fools, or wise alike, 
Each in his way i* 

Oszv. Troth, ( begin to think so. 

Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my 
philosophy : 
I would not givt a denier for the man 
Who, on such provocation as this earth 
Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the 

chin. 
And send it with a fillip to his grave. 
Osiv. Nay, you leave nie behind 
Mar. 'ihat such a One, 

So pious in demeanor I in his look 

So saintly and so pure! Haik'ee, my 

Friend, 
I'll plant myself beforo Lord Cliffords 

Castle, 
A surly mastiff kennels at the gate. 
And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley 
Most tunable. 

Osw In faith, a pleasant scheme; 

But take your sword along with yon^ for that 
Mit^ht in such neighborhood tind seemly 

use. 
But first, how wash our hands of this old 
Man? 
Mar. Oh yes, that mole, th.at vijter in 
the path ; 
Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. 
Oszv. You know we left him sitting— see 

him yonder. 
Mar. Ha ! ha !— 

Oszv. As 'tv/ill be but a moment's work, 
I will stroll on ; you follow when 'tis done. 
\Excu>it. 

Scene cJians;es to anotJicr part of the Moor 
at a short ^//.c/rt'wrr— Hi.RBERT is dis- 
coi'ercd seated on a stone. 

Her. A sound of laughter, too !— 'tis well 

— I feared. 
The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow 
Pressing upon his solitary heart. 
Hush !— 'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind 
That creeps along the bolls of the crisp 

heather. 
Alas! 'tis cold — I shiver in ihc sunshine - 
What r:in this mean ( There is a ysalm tha! 



POEMS WRITTEN I IV YOUTH. 



63 



Of God's parental mejcies — with Idonea 
1 used to sing it — Listen ! — what toot is there? 

Enter Marmaduke. 

Mar. {aside — looking at Herbert.) 
And I have loved this Man ! and she 
hath loved him ! 
A nd I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clif- 
ford ! 
And there it ends : — if this be not enough 
10 make mankind merry for evermore, 
Then plain it is as day, that eyes were mr.de 
For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! 

\^Looki}ig round. 
A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece 
Of iNTature, finished with most curious skill ! 
{To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you 

ever practised tillage ? 
Pray tell me what this land is worth by the 
acre .'' 
//er. How glad I am to hear your voice I 
I know not 
Wherein I have offended you ; — last night 
I found in you the kindest of Protectors ; 
This morning, wh^-n 1 spoke of weariness, 
You from my s'.ioi! der took my scrip and 

threw It 
About yo-ir own ; ' );it for these two hours 

past 
Once only have yu 1 spoken, when the lark 
Whined from an nng the fern beneath our 

feet, 
And I. no cowar/ in my better days, 
Was almost terr fied. 

A/'^.r. That'j- excellent ! — 

P/ )> u betiiou/ /it yon 01 me many ways 
' , whicli a maj m.iy come to his end, whose 

crimes 
llavi nnised ill Nature up against him — 
pshaw ! - 
Her. For mercy's sake, is nobody in 
siglit? 
I No traveller, peasant, herdsman ? 
, A/,ir. Not a soul : 

Here is a tr e, ragged, and bent, and bare, 
I That turn:; its goat'sbeard tlakes of pea- 
green / loss 
^rom tlie » ;ern breathing of the rough sea- 
wind ; 
This liave ve, but no other company: 
Conimep'' lie to the place. If a man should 

r'' 

Anc .^ave his body here, it were all one 
i-< he were twenty fathoms underground. 

Her. Wliere is our Cijmmon Friend ? 

Mar. A ghost, methinks — 

The spirit of a murdered man, for instance — 



Might have fine room to ramble about here, 
A grand domain to scueak and gibber in. 
//er. Lost Man ! if thou have any close- 
pent guilt 
Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour 

Of visitation 

Mar. A bold word from you ! 

Her. Restore him. Heaven ! 
Mar. The desperate Wretch ! — A Flower. 
Fairest of all flowers, was she once, bi.t now 
They have snapped her from the stem— 

Poh ! let her lie 
Eesoiled with mire, and let the houseless 

snail 
Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — 

• ay, there. 
Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you knew 

The worm was in her 

Her Mercy ! Sir, what mean you ? 

Mar. You have a Daughter ! 
Her Oh tluit she were here I 

She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts. 
And if I have in aught offended you, 
Soon would her gentle voice mal<e peace 
between us. 
Mar. {aside.) I do believe he weeps — I 
could weep too — 
There is a vein of her voice that runs 

through his ; 
Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth 
From the first monient that 1 loved the 

Maid ; 
And for his sake I loved her more: these 

tears — 
I did not think that aught was left in me 
Of what I have been — yes, I thank tiiee, 

Heaven ! 
One happy fliought has passed across my 

mind. 
— It may not be — I am cut off from man ; 
No more shall I be man — no more shall I 
Have human feelings !—( 7"^ Herbert)— 

Now, for a little more 
About your daughter ! 

Her. Troojjs of armed men, 

Met in the roads, would bless us ; little 

children. 
Rushing along in the full tide of play. 
Stood silent as we passed them ! 1 have 

heard 
The boisterous carman, in the miry road. 
Check his loud whip and hail us with miid 

voice. 
And speak with milder voice to his poor 
beasts. 
Mar. And whither were you going ' 
Her. Learn, young Maa, 



64 



POEMS WRITTEN- /AT YOU TIT. 



To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, 
Wliether too mucli for patience, or, like 

mine, 
Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. 
Mar. Now. this is as it should be ! 
Her. I am weak ! — 

My Daughter does not know how weak I 

am ; 
And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven 
Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness. 
By the good God, our common Father, 

doomed ! — 

But I had once a spirit and an arm 

Alar. Now, for a word about your Barony : 
I fancy when you left the Holy Land, 
And came to — what's your title — eh ? your 

claims 
'"Vere undisputed ! 

Her. Like a mendicant, 

Whom no one comes to meet, I stood 

alone ; — 
1 murmured — but, remembering Him who 

feeds 
The pelican and ostrich of the desert, 
From my own threshold I looked up to 

Heaven 
And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. 
So, from the court I passed, and down the 

brook. 
Led by its murmur, to tlie ancient oak 
I came ; and when I felt its cooling shade, 
I sat me down, and cannot but believe — 
While in my lap I held my little Babe 
And clasped her to my heart, my heart that 

ached 
More with delight than grief — I heard a 

voice 
Such as by Cherith on Elijah ctilled : 
It said, " I will be with thee." A little boy, 
A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone. 
Hailed us as if he had been sent from 

heaven, 
And said, with tears, that he would be our 

guide : 
1 had a better guide — that innocent Babe — 
Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from 

harm, 
From cold, from hunger, penury, and death ; 
To whom I owe the best of all the good 
I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more 
And higher far than lies within earth's 

bounds : 
Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, 
I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 
1 bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 
Mar. The name of daughter in his mouth, 

he prays! 



With nerves so steady, that the very flies 
Sit unmolested on his staff. — Innocent ! — 
If he were innocent — then he would tremble 
And be disturbed, as I am. { Turning 

aside.) I have read 
In Story, what men now alive have wit- 
nessed, 
How, when the People's mind was racked 

with doubt. 
Appeal was made to the great Judge : the 

Accused 
With naked feet walked over burning plough- 
shares. 
Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared 
For a like trial, but more merciful. 
Why else have I been led to this bleak 

Waste 1 
Bare is it, without house or track, and des- 
titute 
Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. 
Here will I leave him — here— -All-sccing 

God! 
Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, 
I will commit liim to this final Ordeal ' — 
He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to 

him 
And was his guide ; if once, v/hy not again. 
And in this desert? If never — then the 

whole 
Of what he says, and looks, end does, and is, 
Makes up one damning falseliocd Leave 

him here 
To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart 
And what are a few throes of bodily suffer 

ing 
If they can waken one pang of remorse? 

[Goes up to Hi'.Rr.r.RT. 
Old Man ! my wrath is as a flan^.c burnt out. 
It cannot be rekindled. Thou art b.ere 
Led by my hand to save thee from perdition, 

Thou wilt have time to breathe and think 

Her Oh, Mercy! 

Mar. I know the need that all men have 
of mercy. 
And therefore leave thee to a righteous judg 
ment. 
Her. My Child, my blessed Child ! 
Mar. No more of that; 

Thou wilt have many guides if thou art in- 
nocent ; 
Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, 
That Woman will come o'er this Waste to^ 
save thee 

[He pauses and looks at Hkrbert's 
staff. 
Ha ! what is here ? and carved by her own 
hand ! [Reads upon the staff 



FOEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



H 



" I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. 
He that puts his trust in nic shall not fail I " 
Yes, be it so : — repent and be forgiven — 
Gud and that staff are now thy only guides 
[//«? leaves Herbert on ilie Moor. 

Scene, an emmence^ a Beacon ott tlie 
summit. 
Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c., &c. 

Several of the Band {confusedly). But 

patience ! 
One of the Band. Curses on that Traitor, 
Oswald !— 
Our Captain made a prey to foul device I — 
Ltn.{toWal.) His tool, the wandering 
Beggar, made last night 
A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt. 
Knowing what otherwise we know too well, 
Tliat she revealed the truth Stand by me 

now ; 
For rather would I have a ne?t of vipers 
Between my breast-plate and my skin, than 

make 
Oswald my special enemy, if you 
Deny me your support. 

Lacy. W^ have been fooled-^ 

But for the motive? 

Wal. Natures sucli as his 

Spin motives out of their own bowels, 

Lacy ! 
I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. 
I know him well ; there needs no other mo- 
tive 
Than that most strange incontmence in 

crime 
Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life 

to him 
And breath and being , where he cannot 

govern. 
He will destroy. 
Lacy. To have been trapped like 
moles ! — 
Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for 

motives ; 
There is no- crime from which this man 

would shrink ; 
He recks not human law ; and I have no- 
ticed 
That often when the name of God is uttered, 
A sudden blankness overspreads his face. 
Lcn Yet, reasoner as he is, hi:: pride has 
built 
Some uncouth superstition of its own, 
Wal. I have seen traces of it. 
Len. Once he headed 

A band of Pirates in i N.orway seas ; 



And when the King of Denmark summoned 

him 
To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 
'Twas a strange answer that he made ; he 

said, 
" I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven.'' 
Lacy. He is no madman. 
Wal. A most subtle doctol 

Were that man, who could draw the line 

that parts 
Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Mad- 
ness, 
That shotild be scourged, not pitied. Rest- 
less Minds, 
Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men 
No heart that loves them, none that they* 

can love, 
Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy 
In dim relation to imagined Beings. 

One of the Band. What if he mean to 
offer up our Captain 
An expiatfon and a sacrifice 
To those infernal fiends ! 

Wal Now, if the event 

Should be as Lennox has foretold, then 

swear, 
My Friends, his heart shall have as many 

wounds 
As there are daggers here 

Lacy. What need of swearing 1 

One of the Band. Let us away ! 
Another. Away I 

A third. Hark ! how the horns 
Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the 
vale. 
Lacy Stay you behind ; and when the 
sun is down, 
Light up this beacon 

Otie of the Band. You shall be obeyed, 
[ They go out together. 

Scene, the Wood on the edge of the Moor, 
Marmaduke (alone). 

Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond 

human thought. 
Yet calm.— I could believe-, that there was 

here 
The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, 
Remembered terror, there is peace and rest 

Enter Oswald. 

Os7v. Ha f my dear Captain. 
Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, 

Would have been better timed. 

Osw. Alone, I see," 



66 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Ton have done your duty I had hopes, 

which now 
I feel that you will justify. 

Mar. I had fears, 

From which I have freed myself — but 'lis 

my wish 
To be alone, and therefore we must part 
Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. There's 

a weakness 
About you still ; you talk of solitude — 
I am your friend. 

Mar. What need of this assurance 

At any time ? and why given now .? ■ 

Osw. Because 

You are now m truth my Master ; you have 
, taught me 

What there is not another living man 
Had strength to teach, — and therefore 

gratitude 
Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 
Mar. Wherefore press this on mc i* 
Osw. .Because I feel 

That you have shown, and by a signal in- 
stance, 
How they who would be just must seek the 

rule 
By diving for it into their own bosoms. 
To-day you have thrown off a tyranny 
That lives but in the torpid acquiescence 
Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny 
Of the world's masters, with the musty 

rules 
By which they uphold their craft from age 

to age • 
You have obeyed the only law that sense 
Submits to recognize ; the immediate law, 
From the clear light of circumstances, 

flashed 
Upon an independent Intellect. 
Henceforth aew prospects open on your 

path ; 
Your faculties should grow with the de- 
mand , 
I still will be your friend, will cleave to you 
Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn. 
Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. 
Ma."". I would be left alone. 
Osw. (exultingly.) 1 know your motives ! 
I am not of the world's presumptuous 

judges. 
Who damn where they can neither see nor 

feel, 
With a hard-hearted ignorance ; your strug- 

gles 
I witnessed, and now hail your victory. 
Mar. Spare me awhile that greeting. 
Osw. It may be, 



That some there are, squeamish half-think- 
ing cowards, 
Who will turn pale upon you, call you 

murderer. 
And you will walk in solitude among them. 
A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — 
Join twenty tapers of unequal height 
And light them joined, and you will sec the 

less 
How 'twill burn down the taller; and they 

all 
Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — 
The Eagle lives in Solitude I 

Mar Even so. 

The SparrTV -.o on the house-top, and I, 
The weak,-;s : of God's creatures, stand re- 
solved 
To abide the issue of my act, alone. 

Os7v. Now would you .'' and forever?— 
My young Friend, 
As time idvar.ccs cither ive become 
Tlie prey jr masters oi our own past deeds- 
Fellowship vve tiiust liave, ivilling or no; 
And if good Angels '"ail, ilack in their duty, 
Substitutes, turn jur i'aces vvherc vve may. 
Are still forthcoming , 5ome which, though 

■ they bear 
111 names, :an render no ill services, 
In recompense for what themselves re- 
quired. 
So meet extremes in this mysterious world, 
\n 1 3ppositcs thus melt into 2ach otiicr. 
ALrr. Time, since Man first drew breath, 
has never moved 
With sucli a weight upon his wings as now; 
But they will soon be lightened, 

Os7v. Ay, lock up- 

cast round you your mind's eye, and you 

will learn 
Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: 
Great actions move our admiration, chiefly 
Because they carry in themselves an earnest 
That we can suffer ajreatly 

Mar. Very true. 

Osrv. Action is transitory — a step, .. blow, 
The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy 
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: 
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
And shares the natii'-e of infinity. 
Mar Truth— and I feel it 
Osw What if you had bid 

Eternal farewell to unmingled joy 
And the light danckig of the thoughtlesj 

heart : 
It IS the toy of fools, and little fit 
For such a world as this. The wise abjuri 



POEMS WRITTEN TV YOUTH. 



6T 



All thoughts whose idle composition lives 
[r\ tiie entire fore;ctf illness of pain. 
~I see 1 have disturbed you. 
Mar By no means. 

Osiv. Compassion ! — pity ! — pride can do 
without them ; 
And what if you should never know them 

more ! — 
He is a puny soul who, feelint; pain, 
Finds ease because another feels it too 
If e'er 1 open out this heart of mine 
It shall be for a nobler end — -to teach 
And not to purchase puling sympathy. 
— Nay, you are pale. 

Mar. It may be so. 

Osw Remorse — 

It cannot live with thought* think on, 

think on, 
And it will die. What ! in this universe, 
Where the least things control the greatest, 

where 
The faintest breath that breathes can move 

a world • 
What' feel remorse, wlicre, if a cat had 

sneezed, 
A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been 
Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals 
Afar. Now, whither are you wandering ? 
That a man, 
So used to suit his language to the time, 
Should thus so widely differ from himself — 
It is most strange. 

Osw Murder ! — -what's in the word ! — 
J have no cases by me ready made 
To fit all deeds Carry him to the 

Camp .' — 
A shallow project ;^you of late have seen 
More deeply, tauc;]it us that the institutes 
Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation 
Banished from human intercourse, exist 
Only in our relations to the brutes 
That make the fields their dwelling. If a 

snake 
Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask 
A license to destroy him ; our good gov- 
ernors 
Hedge in the life of every pest and plague 
That bears the shape of man ; and for what 
purpose, [tion ? — 

But to protect themselves from extirpa- 
This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. 
Mar. My Office is fulfilled — the Man is 
now 
Delivered to the Judge of all things. 
Osw. Dead ! 

Mar. I have borne my burthen to its des- 
tined end. 



Os7v. This instant we'll return to oui 
Companions — 
Oh how J long to see their faces again ) 

Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims who cotitinuc 
thctr journey, 

I don. {after some time.) What. Marma- 
duke! now thou art mine forever 
And Oswald, too ' i^To Marm.aduke.) On 

will we to my Father 
Witii the glad tidings which this day hath 

brought ; 
We'll go together, and, such proof received 
Of his own rights restored, his gratitude 
To ( iod above will make him feel for ours 
Os\i', 1 interrupt you ? 
Idon. Think not so. 

Mar Idonea, 

Tiiat I should ever live to see this moment ! 
Idon, Forgive me. — Oswald knows it 
all — he knows, 
Each word of that unhappy letter fell 
Asa blood drop from my heart. 

Osw. 'Twas even so. 

Mar. I have much to say, but for whose 

ear ? — not thine. 
Idon. Ill can I bear that look — I'lead for 
me, 0;,wald ! 
Ynu arc my Father's Friend. 
{To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not, 
And never can you know, how much he 

loved me 
Twice had he been to mc a father, twice 
Had given me breath, and was I not to be 
His daughter, once his daughter ? could I 

withstand 
His pleading face, and feel his clasping 

arms, 
And hear his prayer that I would not forsake 
him 

In his old age {Hides her face. 

Mar. Patience — Heaven grant me pa- 
tience ! — 
She weeps, she weeps — vty brain shall burn 

for hours 
Ere / can shed a tear. 

Idon . I was a woman ; 

And, balancing the hopes that are the 

dearest 
To womankind with duty to my Father, 
I yielded up thos-.: precious hopes, which 

naught 
On earth could else have wrested from 

me ,— if erring. 
Oh let me be forgiven ! 

Mar, I do forgive the*. 



68 



rOEMS WRIT! EN IN YOUTH. 



Idon. Rut take me to your arms — this 
breast, alas 1 
It throbs, and you have a heart that does not 
feel it. 
Mar. {exultingly. ) She is innocent. 

[//i? oil braces her. 
Osu\ [aside.) Were I a Moralist, 

j should make wondrous revolution here ; 
It were a quaint e:qieriment to show 
The beauty of truth — \^Ad dressing them. 
I see I mtcrrupt you : 
I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; 
Follow me to the Hostel. VE.xit Oswald. 

Idon. Marmaduke, 

This is a happy day. My Father soon 
Shall sun himself before his native doors ; 
The lame, the hungry, will be welcome 

there. 
No more sliall he complain of wasted 

strength, 
Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart ; | 
His good works will be balm and life to him. 
Mar. This is most stiangc! — I know not 
what it was, [said, 

But there was something which most plainly 
That thou wert innocent. 

Ido}i. How innocent ! — 

Oh heavens! you've been deceived. 

Mar. I'hou art a Woman 

To bring perdition on the universe. 

Idon. Already I've been punished to the 
height 
Of my offence. ^Smiling affectionately. 

1 see you love me still, 
The labors of my hand are still your joy ; 
Bethink you of the hour when on your 

shoulder 
I hung this belt. 

[Poititiiig to the belt on which Tvas 
suspended Herkekt's scrip. 
Mar. Mercy of Heaven. \Siitks. 

Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. 

Mar. The scrip that held his food, and I 
forgot 
To give it back again ! 

Idoji. What mean 3'our words ? 

Mar. I know not what I said — all may be 

well. 
[don. That smile hath life in it ! 
Mar. This road is perilous ; 

1 will attend you to a Hut that stands 
Near the wood's edge — rest there to-night, I 

pray you : 
For me, I have business, as you hear, with 

Oswald, 
But will return to you by break of dav> 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene, A desolate prospect— a ridge 0} 
rocks — a Chapd on the summit of one — • 
Moon behind the rocks — night stormy — 
irregular sonnd of a bell — Herbert 
enters exhausted. 

Her. That Chapel-bell in mercy seemad 

\o guide me, 
But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke 
Can scarcely be the work of human hands. 
Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such 
There be who pray nightly before the Altar. 
Oh that I had but strength to reach the 

plr:cc ! 
My Child— my child— dark— dark— I famt 

— this wind — 
These stifling blasts— God help me \ 
Enter Eldred. 
F.ld. Better this bare rock, 

Though it was tottering over a man's head. 
Than a tight case of dungeon walls for 

shelter 
From such rough dealing 

YA moaning voice is heard. 

Ha ! what sound is that.'' 

Trees creaking in the wind (but none are 

here) 
Send forth such noises — and that weary 

bell ! . . . 

Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night 
Is ringing it — 'twould stop a Saint in prayer, 
And that — what is it .? never was sound so 

like 
A human groan. Ha! what is here? F or 

Man- 
Murdered! alas! speak — speak, I am your 

friend : 
No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts his 

hand 
And lays it to his heart — [Kneels to hint) 

I pray you speak ! 
What has befallen you ? 

Her. [feebly.) A stranger has done this, 
And in the arms of a stranger I must die. 
Eld. Nay, think not so ; come, let me 

raise you up : [J^atses him 

This is a dismal place — well — that is well— 
I was too fearful — take me for your guide- 
And your support — my hut is not far oH. 

{Draws him gently off the stage. 

Scene, a room in the Hostel — Marma- 
duke a7td Oswald. 
Mar. But for Idonea ! — 1 have cause It 
think 



Poems written in yovtji. 



09 



That she is innocent. 

Os^v. Leave that thought awhile, 

As one of those beliefs which in their hearts 
Lovers lock up as pearls, thougli oft no 

better 
Tlian feathers clinging to theii points of 

passion. 
This clay's event has laid on nie the duty 
Of opening out my story ; you nuist hear it, 
And without further preface. — In my youtii, 
Except for tliat abatement which is paid 
By envy as a tribute to desert, 
1 was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling 
Of every tongue — as you are now. You've 

heard 
That 1 embarked for Syria. On our voyage 
Was hatched among the crew a foul Con- 
spiracy 
Against my honor, in thewluch our Captain 
Was, 1 believjj, prime Agent. The wind 

fell ; 
We lay becalmed week after week, until 
The water of the vessel was exhausted ; 
I felt a double fever in my veins, 
Yet rage suppressed itself : — to a deep still- 
ness 
Did my pride tame my pride ; — for many 

days. 
On a dead sea under a burning sky, 
1 brooded o'er my injuries, deserted 
By man and nature ; — if a breeze had blown. 
It might have found its way into my heart, 
And 1 had been — 'ao matter — do you mark 

nie .f" 
Mar. Quick — to the point — if any untold 

crime 
Doth haunt your memory. 

Osw. Patience, hear me further ! — 

One day in silence did we drift at noon 
By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare ; 
No food was there, no drink, no grass, no 

shade, 
No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form 
Inanimate large as the body of man. 
Nor any living thing whose lot of life 
Might stretch beyond the measure of one 

moon. 
T(j dig for water on the spot, the Captain 
Landed with a small troop, myself being 

one : 
There I reproached him with his treachery. 
Imperious at all times, his temper rose , 
He struck me ; and that instant had I 

killed him. 
And put an end to his insolence, but my 

Comrades 
Rushed in between us ; then did I insist 



(All hated him, and I was stung to mad 

ness) 
That we should leave him there, alive ! — we 
did so. 
Mar. And he was famished.? 
Osw. Naked was the spot ; 

Methinks I see it now — how in the sun 
Its stony surface glittered like a shield ; 
And in tliat miserable place we left him. 
Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures 
Not one of which could help him while alive. 
Or mourn him dead. 

Mar. A man by men cast off. 

Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor dy- 
ing, 
But standing, walking, stretching forth his 

arms. 
In all things like ourselves, but in the agony 
With which he called for mercy ; and — even 

so — 
He was forsaken ? 

Osiv. There is a power in sounds : 

The cries he uttered might have stojjped 
the boat 

That bore us through the water 

Mar . You returned 

Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? 
Osu>. Some scoffed at him with hellish 
mockery, 
And laughed so loud it seemed that the 

smooth sea 
Did from some cUstant region echo us. 
Mar. We all are of one blood, our vjins 
are filled 
At the same poisonous fountain! 

Osw. 'Twas an island 

Only by sufferance of the winds and waves. 
Which with their foam could cover it at will. 
1 know not how he perished ; but the calm. 
The same dead calm, continued many day?,. 
Afar. But his own crime had brought uii 
him this doom. 
His wickedness prepared it; these expedi- 
ents 
Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. 

Osiv. The man was famished, and was 

innocent ! 
Mar. Impossible ! 

Osw. The man had never wronged me. 
Mar. Banish the thought, crush it, and 
be at peace. 
His guilt was marked — these thing.'; could 

never be 
Were there not eyes that see, and for good 

ends. 
Where ours arc baffled. 

Oiw. I had been deceived. 



70 



POEMS WRITTEN JN VOUTTT. 



Mar. And from that hour the miserable 

man 
No more was heard of ? 

Osw. I liad been betrayed. 

Mar. And he found no deliverance ! 
Osw. The Crew 

Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid 
The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, 
Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. 
So we pursued our voyage : when we 

landed, 
The tale was spread abroad : my power at 

once 
Shrunk from me ; plans and schemes, and 

lofty hopes — 
All vanished. I gave way— do you attend ? 
Mar. The Crew deceived you ? 
Osiv. Nay, command yourself. 

Mar. It is a dismal night — how the wind 

howls ! 
Osw. I hid my head within a Convent, 

there 
Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. 
That was no life for me — 1 was o'erthrown 
But not destroyed. 

Mar. The proofs — you ought to have 

seen 
The guilt — have touched it— felt it at your 

heart — 
As I have done. 

Osw. A fresh tide of Crusaders 

Drove by the place of my retreat : three 

nights 
Did constant meditation dry my blood; 
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding 

on, 
Through words and things, a dim and peril- 
ous way : 
And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld 
A slavery compared to wiiich the dungeon 
And clanking chains are jierfect liberty. 
You understand me — 1 was comforted; 
I h.iv/ that every possible shape of action 
Might lead to good — I saw it and burst 

f(jrth, 
Tliirsting for some of those exploits that fill 
Tlie earth for sure redemption of lost peace. 
\^Markhig Marmaduke's countenance. 
Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity 
Subsided in a moment, like a wind 
That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. 
And yet I had within me evermore 
A salient spring of energy ; I mounted 
From action up to action with a mind 
That never rested — without meat or drink 
Have I lived many days — my sleep was 

bound 



To purposes of reason — not a dream 
But had a continuity and substance 
That waking life had never power to give. 
Mar. O wretched Human-kind! — Until 

the mystery 
Of all this world is solved, well may we envy 
The worm, that, underneath a stone whose 

weight 
Wonld crush the lion's paw with mortal 

anguish, 
Doth lodge, and feel, and coil, and sleep, in 

safety. 
Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those 

traitors."" 
Osiv. Give not to them a thought. From 

Palestine 
We marclied to .Syria:' oft I left the Camp, 
Wlien all that multitude of hearts was still, 
And followed on. through woods of gloomy 

cedar, 
Into deep chasms troubled by roaring 

streams ; 
Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed 
The moonlight desert, and the moonlight 

sea ; 
In these my lonely wanderings I perceived 
What mighty objects do impress their forms 
To elevate our intellectual being ; 
And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 
'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms 
A thing so great to perish self-consumed. 
— So much for my remorse ! 

Mar. Unhappy Man ! 

Osiv. When from these forms 1 turned to 

contemplate 
The World's opinions and her usages, 
I seemed a Being who had passed alone 
Into a region of futurity, 

Whose natural element was freedom 

Mar. Stop 

I may not, cannot, follow thee. 

Osw. You must 

I had been nourished by the sickly food 
Of popular applause. I now perceiveil 
That we are praised, only as men in us 
Do recognize some image of themselves, 
An abject counterpart of what they are. 
Or the empty thing that they would wish to 

be. 
I felt that merit has no surer test 
Than obloquy : that, if we wish to serve 
The world in substance, not deceive by show, 
We must become obnoxious to its hate, 
Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. 
Mar. I j)ity, can forgive, you ; but those 

wretches — 
That monstrous perfidy] 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



7i 



Osw. Keep down your wrath. 

False Shame discarded, spurious Fame de- 
spised, 
Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found 
Life stretched before me smooth as some 

broad way 
Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests 

might spin 
Their veil, but not for me — 'twas in fit place 
Among its kindred cobwebs. I laa been, 
And in that dream had left my native iands, 
One of Love s simple bondsmen— the soft 

chain 
Was off forever ; and the men, from wliom 
This liberation came, you would destroy : 
Join me in thanks for their blind services. 
Mar. 'Tis a strange aching that, when 

we would curse 
And cannot. — You have betrayed me — I 

have dune — 
I am content — I know that he is guiltless — 
That both are guiltless, without spot or 

stain, 
Mntually consecrated. Poor old Man ! 
And 1 had heart for this, because thou 

lovedst 
Her who from very infancy had been 
Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — 

Together [ Tnryiing to Oswald. 

We propped his steps, he leaned upon us 

both. 
Osw. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of 

adamant ; 
Let us be fellow-lalwrers, then, to enlarge 
Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 
In slavery ; all is slavery ; we receive 
Laws, but we ask not whence those laws 

have come ; 
We need an inward sting to goad us on. 
Mar. Have you betrayed me 1 Speak to 

that. 
Osw. The mask, 
Which for a season I have stooped to wear, 
Must be cast off. — Know then that 1 was 

urged, 
(For other impulse let it jjass) was driven, 
To seek for sympathy, because 1 saw 
In you a mirror of my youthful self ; 
I would have made us equal once again, 
But that was a vain hope. You have struck 

home. 
With a few drops of blood cut short the 

business ; 
Therein forever you must yield to me. 
But what is done will save you from the 

blank 
Of living without knowledge that you live : 



Now you are suffering — for the future day, 
'Tis his who will command it. — Think of 

my story — 
Herbert is itxnoccnt. 

Mar. {^in a faint voice, and doubting! ) ). 
You do but echo 
My own wild words 1 

Osw. Young Man, the seed must he 

Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest : 
'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in 

darkness 
1 will avow before the face of day. 
Herbert is innocent. 

Mar. What fiend could prcaiipt 

This action? Innocent! — oh, breaking 

heart !— 
Alive or dead, I'll find him. \Exit. 

Osw. Alive — perdition ! [Exit. 

Scene, ^/ztf inside of a poor Cottage. 

Eleanor an i Idonea seated. 

Idon. The storm beats hard — Mercy for 
poor or rich, 
Whose heads are shelterless in such a night I 
A Voice without. Holla ! to bed, good 

Folks, within ! 
Elea, O save us ! 

Idon. What can this mean ? 
Elea. Alas, for my poor husband !— 

We'll have a countmg of our flocks to-mor 

row ; 
The wolf keeps festival these stormy niqhts ■. 
Be calm, sweet Lady, they.are wassailers 

[ T/tc voices die an ay in the distance. 
Returning from their Feast- my heart beats 

so — 
A noise at midnight does so frighten me. 
Idoii. Hush ! \Listcnins: 

Elca. They are gone. On sutli a 

night, my husband, 
Dragged from his bed, was cast into a tlun 

geon, 
Where, hid from me, he counted many 

years, 
A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — 
Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence 
So dealt v.ith him. 

Ido7i. I have a noble Friend 

First among youths of knightly breeding 

One 
Who lives but to protect the weak or in- 
jured. 
There again ! [Listening. 

Elea. 'Tis my husband's foot. Good 
Eldred 
Has a kind heart : but his imprisonment 



72 



POEMS WRITTEN IN fOUTH. 



Has made hini fearful, and he'll never be 
The man he was. 
Idon. I will retire : — good night ! 

\^Shc goes ivit/iin 

Enter Eld RED {hides a bundle). 

Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ! — there are 
stains \\\ that frock which must be washed 
out. 

Elea. What has befallen you ? 

Eld. I am belated, and you nnist know 
the cause — {slea/chtg loiv) that is the blood 
of an unhappy Man. 

Elea. Oh ! we are undone forever 

Eld. Heaven forbid that I should lift my 
hand against any man. Eleanor, I have 
shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to 
thmk of it. 

Elea. Where, where is he ? 

Eld. I have done him no harm, but it 

will be forgiven me ; it would not have been 
so once. 

Elea. You have not buried anything? 
You are no richer than when you left me ? 

Eld. Be at peace ; I am innocent. 

Elea. Then God be thanked — 

\A short pause, she falls upon his ncek. 

Eld. To-night I met with an old Man ly- 
ing stretched upon the ground — a sad spec- 
tacle : I raised him up with a hope that we 
might shelter and restore him. 

Elea. (as if ready to run). Where is he.'' 
You were not able to bring him all the way 
With you ; let us return, 1 can help you. 

[Eld RED shakes his head. 

Eld He did not seem to wish for life '. as 
I was strugghng on, by the light of the moon 
I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes — 
he waved his hand, as if it were all useless ; 
and I let him sink again to the ground. 

Elea. Oh that I had b^cn by your side ! 

Eld. I tell you his liands and his body 
were cold — how could I disturb his last mo- 
ments .? he strove to turn from me as if he 
wished to settle into sleep. 

Elea. But, for the stains of blood — 

Eld He must have fallen, I fancy, for his 
head was cut ; but I think his malady was 
cold and hunger. 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able 
*o look up at this roof in storm or fair but 
I shall tremble. 

Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars 
have kept me abroad to-night till this hour.'' 
( come home, and this is my comfort ! 

P-/ca. Hut did he say nothing which 
Wight hiive set you at ease I 



Eld I thought he grasped my hand while 
he was muttering something about his Child 
— his Daughter — (starting as if he heard A 
noise). Wiiat is that.? 

Elea. Eldred, you are a fatlier. 

Eld. God knows what was in my heart, 
and will not curse my son for my sake. 

Elea. But you prayed by him .? you waited 
the hour of his release ? 

Eld. The night was wasting fast ; I have 
no friend ; I am spited by the world — his 
wound terrified me — if 1 had brought him 
along with me, and he had died in my arms! 

1 am sure I heard something breathing 

— and this chair ! 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. 
You will have nobody to close your eyes — 
no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall 
be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. 

Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles 
when I was in the dungeon .? 

Elea. And you left him alive ? 

Eld. Alive ! — the damps of death were 
ui3on him — he could not have survived an 
hour. 

Elea. In the cold, cold night. 

Eld. (in a savage tone). Ay, and his 
head was bare ; I suppose you would have 
had me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You 
will never rest till 1 am brought to a felon's 
end. 

Elea. Is there nothing to be done? can- 
not we go to the Convent? 

Eld Ay, and say at once that I murdered 
him ! 

Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the 
only house upon the Waste ; let us take 
heart ; this Man may be rich ; and could he 
be saved by our means, his gratitude may 
reward us 

Eld. 'Tis all in vain. 

Elea. But let us make the attempt. This 
old Man may have a wife, and he may have 
children — let us return to the spot ; we may 
restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon 
those that love him. 

Eld. He will never open them more ," 
even when he spoke to me, he kept them 
firmly sealed as if he had been blind. 

Idou (rushing out) It is, it is, my 
Father — 

Eld. We are betrayed {looking at 
Idonea). 

Elea. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! 
(turniiig to Idonea). 

Idon. {sinking down). Oh! lift me up 
and carry me to the place. 



POEMS WRITTEN LV YOUTFT. 



n 



You are safe ; the whole world shall not 
harm you. 
Elea. This Lady is his Daughter. 
Eld. {moved). I'll lead you to the spot. 
Idon. (sprins^ing tip). Alive ! — you 
heard him breathe ? quick, quick— 

\^Exct{nt. 



Scene, the edge of the Moor. 



ACT V. 

Scene, a wood on the edge of the Waste. 

Enter Oswald and a Forester. 

For. He leaned upon the bridge that 
spans the glen, 
And down into tiie bottom cast his eye, 
That fastened there, as it would check the 
current. 
Osw. He listened too ; did you not say 

he listened ? 
For. As if there came such moaning from 
the flood 
As is heard often after stormy nights. 
Os-iv But did he utter nothing; ? 
For. See him there ! 

Marmaduke appearing. 
Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged 
freebooters*; 
That is no substance whicli ve settle on ! 
For. His senses play him false ; and see, 
his arms 
Outspread, as if to save himself from fall- 
ing !— 
Some terrible phantom I believe is now 
Passing before him, such as God will not 
Permit to visit any but a man 
Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. 
[Marmaduke disappra rs. 
Osw. The game is up ! — 
For. ]f it be needful, Sir, 

J will assist you to lay hands upon him. 
Osu'. No, no, my Friend, you may pursue 
your business — 
Tis a i^oor wretch of an unsettled mind, 
Wlio has a trick of straying from his 

keepers ; 
We must be gentle. Teave him to my 
care. [Exit Forester. 

If his own eyes play false with him, these 

freaks 
Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; 
The goa! is reached. My Master shall be- 
come 
A shadovr of myself— made by myself. 



Marmaduke and Eldred enter from 
opposite sides. 

Mar. {raising his eyes and perceiving 
Eldred). In any corner of this savage 
Waste, 
Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old 
Man? 

Eld. 1 heard 

Mar. You heard him, where ? wh( n 

heard him ? 
Eld. As you know, 

Tiie first hours of last night were rough 

with storm : 
I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; 
Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; 
Then, tliinking that my fancy had deceived 

me, 
I hurried on, when straight a second moan, 
A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. 
So guided, distant a few steps, I found 
An aged Man, and such as you describe. 
Mar. You heard ! — he called you to him ? 
Of all men 
The best and kindest ! but where is he ? 

guide me, 
That I may see him. 

Eld. On a ridge of rocks 

A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now : 
The bell is left, which no one dares re- 
move ; 
And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the 

peak. 
It rings, as if a human hand were there 
To pull he cord. 1 guess he must have 

he;..-dit; 
And it had led him towards the precipice, 
To climb up to the spot whence the sound 

came ; 
But he had failed through weakness, liuiu 

his hand 
His staff had dropped, and close upon the 

.brink 
Of a small pool of water he was laid. 
As if he had stooped to drink, and so re 

mained 
Without the strength to rise. 

Mar. Well, well, he lives, 

And all is safe : what said he ? 

Eld. But few words: 

He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, 
Who, 30 he feared, would never see hia 

more ; 
And of a Stranger to him. One by wliom 
He had been sore misused ; but he forgave 



74 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



The wrong and the wrong-doer You are 

troubled — 
Perliaps you are his son 

Mar. The All-seeing knows, 

I did not think he had a living Child — 
But wliither did you carry him ? 

Eld. He was torn, 

His head was bruised, and there was blood 

about iiim 

Mar. Tiuit was no work of mine. 
Eld. Nor was it mine. 

Mar. But had he strength to walk ? I 
could have borne him 
A thousand miles 

Eld. I am in poverty, 

And know how busy are the tongues of 

men ; 
My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one 
Whose good deeds will not stand by their 

own light ; 
And, tliough it smote me more than words 

can tell, 
I left him. 

Mar. I believe that there are phantoms, 
That in the shape of man do cross our path 
On evil instigation, to make sport 
Of our distress— and thou art one of them ! 
But things substantial have so pressed on 

me 

Eld. My wife and children came into my 

mind. 
Mar. Oh Monster! Monster! there are 
three of us. 
And we shall hov/i together. 

\After a /a use and in a fee lie voice. 

I am deserted 

At my worst need, my crimes have in a net 

^Pointing to Elurkd) Entangled this 

poor man. — 

Where was it ? where ? 

\Draggi71g him along. 

Eld. 'Tis needless ; spare your violence. 

His Daughter 

Mar. A> in the word a thousand scor- 
pions lodge : 
This old man had a Daughter. 

EU. To the spot 

1 hurried back with her. — O save me, Sir, 

From such a journey ! there was a black 

tree, 
A singii.; tree ; she thought it was her 

Father. — 
Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again 
For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, 

and now — 
Nay ; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should 
bear it — 



As we approached, a solitary crow 

Rose from the spot ;— the Daugh'ter clapped 

her hands, 
And then I heard a shriek so terrible 

[Marmauuke shrinks back. 
The startled bird quivered upoa thtf 
wing. 
Mar. Dead, dead ! — 
Eld. {after a fause). A dismal matter^ 
Sir, for me. 
And seems the like for you ; if 'tis your 

wish, 
I'll lead you to his Daughter ; but 'twere 

best 
That she should be prepared ; I'll go before. 
Mar. There will be need of preparation. 
[j^LDRED goes off. 
Elea. {enters^. Master ! 

Your limbs sink under you, shall I support 
you ? 
Mar. {taking her arm). Woman, I've 
lent my body to the service 
Which now thou tak'st upon thee. Go*! 

forbid 
That thou shouldst ever meet a like occa- 
sion 
With such a purpose in thine heart as mine 
was. 
Eiea. Oh, wlr have I to do with things 
like these.'' {Exeunt. 

Scene changes to the door of Eldred's 

cottage — Idon E A seated — enter 

Eldred. 

Eld. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful 
hand 
Has met unkindness ; so indeed he told me, 
And you remember such was my report : 
From what has just befallen me 1 have 

cause 
To fear the very worst. 

Idon. My Fatner is dead ; 

Why dost thou come to me with words like 
these ? 
Eld. A wicked Man should answer foi 

his crimes. 
liloti. Thou seest me what I am. 
Eld. It was most heinous, 

And doth call out for vengeance. 

Idon. Do not add, 

I prithee, to the harm thou'st done al 
ready. 
Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for 
this service. 
Hard by, a Man I met, who, from pliiia 
proofs 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



75 



Of interfering^ Heaven, I have no doubt, 
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it 

were 
You should prepare to meet him. 

Iiion. 1 have nothing 

Tii do with others; help me to my Father — 
[^S/ie turns and sees Marmaduke 
leaning on Eleanor — throus her- 
self upon his neck, and after some 
time, 
In joy I met thee, but a few hours ]xist ; 
And thus we meet again ; one human stay 
Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. 
Mar. In such a wilderness — to see no 
thing, 
No, not the pitying moon ! 
Idon. And perish so. 

Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. 
Idon. Think not of it, 

T?ut enter there and see him how he sleeps, 
'I'ranquil as he had died in his own bed. 
Mar. Tranquil — why not .? 
Idon. Oh, peace! 

Mar He is at peace ; 

His body is at rest there was a plot, 
A hideous plot, against the soul of man : 
It took effect— and yet 1 baffled it. 
In some degree. 

Idon. Between us stood, I thought, 

A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven 
For botii our needs ; must I, and in thy 

presence, 
Alone jwrtake of it i* — Beloved Marma- 
duke ! 
Alar . Give me a reason why the wisest 
thing 
That the earth owns shall never choose to 

die. 
But some one must be near to count his 

groans. 
The wounded deer retires to solitude. 
And dies in solitude ; all things but man. 
All die in solitude. 

[iMuving totvards the cottage-door. 
Mysterious God, 
If she had never lived 1 had not done it ! — 
Idon. Alas ! the thought of such a cruel 
death 
Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. 

Eld. Lady ! 

You will do well ; {she q^oes) unjust suspi- 
cion may 
Cleave to this Stranger : if, upon his en- 
tering. 
The dead Man heave a groan, or from his 

side 
Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. 



Elca. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! 
Mar. {both returning). The dead have 
but one face {to himself). 

And such a Man — so meek and unoffend- 
ing — 

Helpless and harmless as a babe : a Man, 

By obvious signal to the world's protec- 
tion, 

Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — 
Idon. Oh, had you seen him hving ! — 
Mar. I (so filled 

With horror is this world) am unto thee 

The thing most precious that it now con- 
tains : 

Therefore through me alone must be re- 
vealed 

By whom thy Parent was destroyed, 
Idonea ! 

I have the proofs ! — 

Idon. O miserable Father I 

Thou didst command me to bless all man- 
kind ; 

Nor, to this moment, have I ever wished 

Evil to : ny living thing ; but hear me. 

Hear me, ye Heavens ! — {kneeling) — may 
vengeance haunt the fiend 

For this most cruel murder : let him live 

And move in te'ror of the elements ; 

The thunder send him on his knees to 
prayer 

In the open streets, and let him think he 
sees. 

If e'er he entereth the house of God, 

The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his 
head ; 

And let him, when he would lie down at 
night, 

Point to his wife the blood-drops on his 
pillow ! 
Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart 

hath joined thee. 
Idon. {/eani)tg 0)1 l,\\\i.^\xViVKu). Left 
to the irercy of that savage Man ! 

How could he call upon his Child! — O 
Friend ! [ Turns to Marmaduke. 

My faithful, true and only Comforter. 
Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. {He 
kisses her) {To Eldreu.) Yes, 
varlet, look, 

The devils at such sights do clap their 
hands. [ELiiRED retires alarmed. 

Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is 
deadly pale ; 

Hast thou pursued the monster ? 

Alar. 1 have found him.— 

Oh ! woulil that thou hadst perished in the 
flames 1 



76 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Idon. Here art thou, then can I be des- 
olate ? — 
Mar. There was a time when this pro- 
tecting hand 
Availed against the mighty ; never more 
Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. 
Idon. Wild words for me to hear, for me, 
an orphan, 
Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven ; 
And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope 
In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine 
For closer care ;^iere is no malady. 

[ Taking his arm. 
Mar. There, is almalady — 
{Striking his heart and forehead.) And 

here, and here, 
A mortal malady. — I am accurst : 
All nature curses me, and in my heart 
Thy curse is fixed ; the truth must be laid 

bare. 
It must be told and borne. I am the man, 
(Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) 
Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, 
Who, casting as 1 thought a guilty Person 
Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did 

become 
An instriuiient of Fiends, Through me, 

through me 
Thy Father perished. 

Idnn. Perished— by what mischance ? 
Mar. Beloved ! — if 1 dared, so would 1 
call thee — 
Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen 

heart, 
The extremes of suffering meet in absolute 
peace. \He gives her a letter. 

Idon. {reads). " Re not surprised if you 
hear that some signal judgment has befallen 
the man who calls himself your father ; he 
is now with nie, as his signature will show : 
abstain from conjecture till you see me. 
" IIfrbekt, 
" Marmaduke." 
The writing Oswald's ; the signature mv 

Father's : 
[Looks steadily at the paper >) And here is 

yours, — or do my eyes deceive me t 
You have then seen my Father ? 

Mar. He has leaned 

Upon this arm. 

Idon. You led him towards the Convent ? 
Mar. That Convent was Stone-Arthur 
Castle Thither 
We were his guides. I on that night re- 
solved 
'J'luit he should wait thy coming till the day 
Ot resurrection. 



Idon. Miserable Woman, 

Too quickly moved, too easily givmg way, 
1 put denial on thy suit, and hence, 
With the disastrous issue of last night, 
Thy perturbation, and these frantic words 
Be calm, 1 pray thee ! 

Mar. Oswald 

Idon. Name h.m rot 

Enter female Beggar. 
Beg. And he is dead !— that Moor— hovs 

shall I cross it .? 
By night, by day, never shall I be able 
To travel half a mile alone.- Good Ladvl 
Forgive me !— Saints forgive me. Had ! 

^thought 
It would have come to this ! — 

Idon. What brings you hither? speak! 
Beg. {pointing to M arm A duke). This 

innocent (ientleman. Sweet heavens ! 

I told him 
Such tales of your dead leather ! — God is 

my judge, 
I thought tliere was no harm : but that bad 

Man, 
He bribed me with his gold, and looked sq 

fierce. 
Mercy I I said I know not what — oh pity 

me — 
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his 

Daughter- 
Pity me, 1 am haunted ; — thrice this day 
My conscience made me wish to be struck 

blind ; 
.And then I would have prayed, and had no 

voice. 
Idon. {to Marmaduke). Was it my 

Father '--no, no, no, for lie 
Was meek and p.itient, feeble, old and 

blind, 
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. 
— P>ut hear me. For oie question, 1 have 

a heart 
That will .sustain me. Did you murder 

liim ? 
Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But 

learn the i)r()cess: 
Proof after proof was jiressed upon me; 

guilt 
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt. 
Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee ; 

and truth 
And innocence, embodied in his looks, 
Ilis\v(jrds and tones and gestures, did but 

serve 
With nie to aggravate his crimes, and heaped 
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH, 



11 



riien pity crossed the patli of my resolve : 
Confounded, 1 looked up to Heaven, and 

cast, 
Idoiiea ! thy blind Father, on the Or-dcal 
Of the bleak Waste — left him — and so he 

died !— 

[Idonea sinks senseless: Beggar, 

Eleanor, 6^<;. , crowd round and 

bear her off. 
Wliy may we speak these things, and do no 

more ; 
Wliy should a thrust of the arm have such 

a power. 
And words that tell these things be heard 

in vain ? 
Sac is not dead. Why ! — if I loved this 

Woman, 
I would take care she n^-ver woke again ; 
But she WILL wake, anJ she will weep for 

me, 
And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor 

fool. 
Will waste her curses on another name. 

\^He walks about distractedly. 

Enter Oswald, 

Oswald {to himself). Strong to o'erturn, 
strong also to build up. 

\^To Marmaduke. 

The starts and sallies of our last encounter 

Were natural enough ; but that, I trust, 

Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains 

That fettered your nobility of mind — 

Delivered heart and head ! 

Let us to Palestine ; 

This is a paltry field for enterprise. 
Mar. Ay what shall we cncounternext 1 
This issue — 

'Twas nothing more than darkness, deepen- 
ing darkness 

And weakness crowned with the impotence 
of death ! 

Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient 
{ironically). 

Start not ! — here is another face hard by ; 

Come, let us take a peep at both together, 

And, with a voice at which the dead will 
quake. 

Resound t!ie praise of your morality — 

Of tliis too much. 

[Drawing OSWALD towards tm Cot- 
tai;c — stops short at the door. 

Men are there, millions, Oswald, 

Who w th bare liands would have plucked 
out thy heaiT 

And flung it to the dogs ; but I am raised 



Above, or sunk below, all further sense 
Of provocation. Leave mc, with the weight 
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, 
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. 
Coward 1 have been ; know, there lies not 

now 
Within the compass of a mortal thought, 
A deed that 1 would shrink from ;— but to 

endure, 
That is my destiny. May it be thine : 
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth 
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting 
Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. 
When seas and continents shall lie between 

us — 
The wider space the better — we may find 
In such a course fit links of sympathy. 
An incommunicable rivalship 
Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond onr 
view. 

[Confused voices — several of the band 
enter — rush iipon Oswald and seize 
him. 
One of them. I would have dogged him 

to the jaws of hell — 
Osw. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant Hag ! 
— this comes 
Of having left a thing like her alive ! [Aside. 
Several voices. Despatch him ! 
Osw. If 1 pass beneath a rock 

And shout, and with the echo of my voice, 
Bring down a heap of rubbish and it crush 

me, 
I die without dishonor. Famished, starved- 
A Fool s.nd Coward blended to my wish ! 
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at 
Marmapuke. 
Wal. 'Tis done ! {stabs hint). 
Another of the band. The ruthless traitor ! 
Alar. A rash deed ! — 

With that reproof I do resign a station 
Of which I have been proud. 

Wil. {approaching Marmaduke). O 

my poor Master! 
Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful 
W^ilfred, 
Why art thou here ? 

[Turnijtgto Wallace 

Wallace, upon these Borders. 

Many there be whose eyes will not w;iut 

cause 
To weep that I am gone. Brothers ir 

arms! 
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument 
That may record my story ; nor let words — 
Few must they be, and delicate in theii 
touch 



78 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



As light itself — be there withheld from Her 
Who, through most wicked arts, was made 

an orphan 
By One who would have died a thousand 

times, 
To shield her from a moment's harm. To 

you, 
Wallace and Wilfred, I comn.jnd the Lady, 
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her 
In all things worthier of that noble birth, 
Whose long suspended rights are now on 

the eve 
Of restoration : with your tenderest care 

Watch over her, I pray — sustain her 

Several of the band {eagerly). Captain ! 
Mar. No more of that; in silence here 

my doom : 
A hermitage has furnished fit relief 
To some offenders ; other penitents, 



Less patient in their wretchedness, have 

fallen. 
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's 

point. 
They had their choice : a wanderer must 1 

go, 
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my 

guide. 
No human ear shall ever hear me speak ; 
No human dwelling ever give me food, 
Or sleep, or rest : but, over waste and wild. 
In search of nothing that this earth can 

give, 
But expiation, will I wander on — 
A Man by pain and thought compelled to 

live. 
Yet loathing life— till anger is appeased 
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave M 

die. 
1795-6. 



I 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF 
CHILDHOOD. 



My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky ; j 
So was it wlien my life began ; 
So is it nov/ 1 am a man ; 
So be it when 1 shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is hither of the Man ; 
And 1 could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 
1S04. 

11 

TO A BUTTERFLY 

Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do 1 find in thee, 

Historian of my infancy ! 

Float near me : do not yet depart I 

Dead times revive in thee . 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 

Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
The time, when, in our childish plays, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly ! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey ; — with leaps and springs 
I followed on from brake to bush : 
But she, God love licr ! feared to brush 
Tlie dust from off its wings. 
iSoi. 



III. 

THE SPARROW'S NEST. 

Behold,, within the leafy shade, 
Those britjht blue eggs together laid! 
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
Xhe home and sheltered bed, 



The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard^ 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
My sister Emmeline and 1 
Together visited. 

She looked at it and seemed to fear it*, 
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it;' 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a boy; 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears : 
And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
And love, and thought, and joy. ^ 
iSoi. 



IV. 

FORESIGHT. 

That is work of waste and ruin — 
Do as Charles and 1 are doing ! 
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all. 
We must spare them— here are many: 
Look at It— tlie flower is small, 
Small and low, though fair as any 
Do not touch it ! summers two 
1 am older, Anne, than you. 

Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 

Pull as many as you can. 

— Here are daisies, take your fill ; 

f\insies, and the cuckoo-flower: 

Of the lofty daffodil 

Make your bed, or make your bower; 

Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 

Only spare the strawberry-blossom I 

Primroses, the Spring may love them,- 
Suinmer knows but little of them : 
Violets, a barren kind, 
Witliered on the ground must lie; 
Daisies leave no fruit behind 
When the pretty flowerets die ; 
Pluck them, and another year 
As many vrill be blowing here. 

(79> 



8o POEMS REFERRING TO TTJE PER TOP OF CHILPHOOD. 



God has given a kindlier power 
To the favored strawberry-flower. 
Hither soon as spring is fled 
You and Charles and 1 will walk ; 
Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
Then will hang on every stalk, 
Each within its leafy bower: 
And lor tiuit promise spare the flower! 
1802. 



CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD 
THREE YEARS OLD. 

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild ; 

And Innocence hath privilege in her 

To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; 

And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round 

Of trespasses, affected to provoke 

Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. 

And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, 

Not less if unattended and alone 

Than when both young and old sit gathered 

round 
And take deliglit in its activity; 
Even so this happy Creature of herself 
Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her 
Is blithe society, who fills the air 
With gladness and involuntary songs. 
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay 

couched : . 
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir 
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow- 
flowers. 
Or from before it chasing wantonly 
The many-colored images imprest 
Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 



ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. 
BY MY SISTER. 

What way does the Wind come? What 

way does he go ? 
He rides over the water, and over the snow. 
Through wood, and through vale ; and, o'er 

rocky height 
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his 

sounding flight : 
He tosses about in every bare tree, 
As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 



But how he will come, and whither he goeS| 
There's never a scholar in England knows. 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
And ring a siiarp 'larum ; — but, if you should 

look, 
There's nothing to sec but a cushion of snoW 
Round as a pillow, and wliiter than milk, 
And softer than if it were covered witii silk. 
Sometimes he'll hide m the cave of a rock, 
Then whistle as sluill as the buzzard cock; 
— Yet seek aim,- and what shall you find in 

place } 
Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 

[ That l-.e's left, for a bed, to beggars o\ 

j thieves I 

As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard, and then you 

will see 
That he has been there, and made a great 

rout, 
And cracked the branches, and strewn them 

about ; 
Heaven grant that he spare but that one up- 
right twig 
That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
All last summer, as well you know. 
Studded with apples, a beautiful show! 

Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
And growls as if he would fix his claws 
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
Drive them down, like men in a battle 
— But let him range round ; he does U3 no 

harm, 
We buildup the fire, we're snug and warm; 
Untouched by his breath, see the candle 

shines bright, 
And burns with a clear and steady light 
Books have we to read, — but that half-stifled 

knell, 
Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
— Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are 

there 
He may work his own will, and what shall 

we care ? 
He may knock at the door, — we'll not let 

him in ; 
May drive at the windows, — we'll laugh at 

his din ; 
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and 

me. 
1806. 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD DF CHILDHOOD. 8 1 



VII. 

Tlin T.IOTllER'S RETURN. 

BY THE SAME. 

A MONTH, sweet little-c-nes, is past 
Since your dear Mother went away, — 
And she to-morrow will return ; 
To-morrow is the iiappy day. 

blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
Tlie eldest heard with steady glee ; 
Silent he stood : then laughed amain, — 
And siiouted, " Mother, come to me ! " 

Louder and louder did he shout, 
With witless hope to bring her near; 
" Nay, patience ! patience, little boy 
Your tender mother cannot hear." 

1 told of hills, and far-off towns, 

And long, long vales to travel through; — 
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
But lie submits : what can he do.? 

No strife disturbs his sister's breast : 
She wars not with the mystery 
Of time and distance, night and day ; 
The bonds of our humanity. 

Her joy is like an instinct joy 
Of kitten, bird or summer fly; 
She dances, runs without an aim, 
She chatters in her ecstasy. 

Her brother now takes up the note, 
And echoes back his sister's glee ; 
They hug the infant in my arms, 
As if to force his sympathy. 

Then, settling into fond discourse, 
We rested in the garden bower ; 
While sweetly shone the evening sun 
In his departing hour. 

We told o'er all that we had done, — 
Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
Where two fair swans together glide. 

We talked of change, of winter gone. 
Of green leaves on the hawtliorn spray. 
Of birds that build their nests and sing. 
And all " since Mother went away ! " 

To her these tales they will repeat. 
To her our new-born tribes will show, 
Th.e goslings green, the ass's colt. 
The lambs that in the meadow go. 

— But, see, the evening star comes forth! 
T© bed the children must depart ; 



A moment's heaviness they feel, 
A sadness at the heart : 

'Tis gone — and in a merry fit 

The; r..ii >:p stairs in ga.mesome race; 

I, too, infected by their mood, 

I -ould hav oined the wanton chase. 

Five minutes past — and, O the change I 
Asleep upon their beds tliey lie ; 
Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
And closed the sparkling eye. 
1807. 



VIII. 

ALICE FELL; 

OR, POVERTY. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
For threatening clouds the moon ha^ 

drowned ; 
When, as we hurried on, my ear 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if tlie wind blew many ways, 
I heard the sound, — and more and more ; 
It seemed to follow with tlie chaise. 
And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out ; 
He stopped his horses at the word. 
But, neither cry, nor voice, nor shout. 
Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through tlie rain; 
But, hearing soon upon the iDlast 
The cry, 1 bade him halt again. 

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 
"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous 

moan ? " 
And there a little Girl I found. 
Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 

" My cloak ! '' no other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ? "—she sobbed 

" Look here ! '' 
I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
From any garden scare-crow dangled. 



82 POEMS /DEFERRING TO THE lERIOD Of CHILDHOOD. 



There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
It luing, iior could at once be freed ; 
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
A miserable rag indeed ! 

■' And whither are you going, child, 
To-niglit, along these lonesome ways ? " 
" To burliam,'' answered she, half wild- 
" Then come with me into the chaise. " 

Insensible to all relief 
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
She checked herself in her distress. 
And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
I'm fatherless and motherless. 

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
Again, as if the tliought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
As if she had lost her only friend 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
And 1 gave money to the host, 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duffil gray, 
As warm a clotik as man can sell ! " 
Proud creature was she tlie next day, 
Tlie little orphan, Alice Fell! 
1801. 



LUCY GRAY 



OR, SOLITUDE. 



Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And wlien I crossed the wild, 
I :hanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
( ■ — The sweetest thing that ever grev 
Beside a human door ! - 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sv/eet face of Lucy Gray 
, Will never more be seen. 



'•J 



" To-night will be a stormy night— 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Clnld, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon ! '' 

At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied liis work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe ; 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery sno\», 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
S!ie wandered up and down ; 
And many a lull did Lucy climb 
But never reached tlie town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That ovcrlo(;ked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; '' 

-When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edg« 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn liedge, 
And by the long stone-wall 

And then an open field they crossed : 
'J'he marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them oh, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none! 

-Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
Tliat you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 



POEMS REFERRIIVG TO JUL PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 83 



O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings 3 solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 
1799. 



X. 

WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple Child, 

That ligiUly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
^Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
And wonc'ering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? 1 pray you tell." 
She answered, " Seven are we : 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And twc ire gone to sea. 

Two of Ji. in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

•' Von say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Vet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we : 
'J'vvo of us in the church-yard lie, 
heiieath the church-yard tre»i.*' 

" Vou run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the church-yard laid. 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen,' 

The little Maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door, 
And they are side by side. 



My stockings there I often knit, 
My kercliief tiiere 1 hem ; 
And thL'ic upon the ground 1 sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

And often after sun-set. Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was sister Jane : 
In bed she moaning lay. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

So in tlie church-yard she was !a;d ; 
And,\vlicn the grass was dry, 
Together round her .,rave we playcil. 
My brother John and L 

And when Ihe ground was white cith snoVf 
And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by htr side." 

" How many are you, then ? " said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
" o Master ! we are seven." 

I " But they are dead ; those two are dead • 
Their spi'its are in heaven! '' 
'Twas throwing words away; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven! '' 
1798. 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS 5 

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.* 
A P.\STORAL. 

The valley rings with mirth and joy; 
Among the hills the echoes play 
A never, never ending song, 
To welcome in the May. 
The magpie chatters with delight ; 
The mountain raven's youngling brood 
Have left the mother and the nest ; 
And they go rambling east and west 
In search of their own food ; 



* Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most 
part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream ruiv 
iiinK through it. Force is the word universally 
employed in these dialects for waterfalL 



84 POEAfS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



Or througli the glittering vapors dart 
In very wantonness of heart. 

Beneath a rock upon the grass, 
Two boys are sitting in tlie sun ; 
Their work, if any work they have, 
Is out of mind — or done. 
On pipes of sycamore they play 
'J'he fragments of a Christmas hymn 
Or with that plant which in our dale 
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
Tiieir rusty hats they trim : 
And thus, as happy as the day, 
Those shepherds wear the time away. 

Along tlie river's stony marge 

The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 

The thrush is busy in the wood, 

And carols loud and strong. 

A thousand iambs are on the rocks. 

All newly born ! both earth and sky 

Keep jubilee, and more than all. 

Those boys with their green coronal ; 

They never hear the cry, 

Tiiat plaintive cry ! which up the hill 

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said Walter, leaping from the giound, 
*' Down to the stump of yon old yew 
We'll for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew ; 

They leapt — they ran — and when they came 
Rigiit opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing that he should loose the prize, 
"Stop! " to his comrade Walter cries- 
James stopped witli no good will : 
Said Walter then, exulting ; " Here 
You'll find a task for half a year. 

Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 

The other took him at his word, 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go ; 

Into a chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 

The gulf is deep below ; 

And, in a basin black and small, 

Receives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff in hand across the cleft 
The challenger pursued his march ; 
And now, all hands and feet, hath gained 
The middle of the arch. 
When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
Again ! — his heart within him dies — 
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 



He totters, pallid as a ghost, 
And, looking down, espies 
A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
Within that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream. 

And safe wthout a bruise or wound 

The cataract had borne him down 

Into the gulf profound. 

His dam had seen him when he fell. 

She saw him down the torrent borne ; 

And, while with all a mother's love 

Slie from the lofty rocks above 

Sent forth a cry forlorn, 

Tlie lamb, still swimming round and roun(J 

Made answer to that plaintive sound 

When he had learnt what thing it was, 

That sent this rueful cry ; 1 ween 

Tlie Buy recovered heart, and tuld 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task ; 

Nor was there wanting other aid — 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books, 

By chance had thitlier strayed ; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool. 
And brought it forth into the light : 
The Shepherds met him with his charge, 
An unexpected oight ! 
Into their arms the lamb they took, 
Whose life and limbs the Hood had spared 
Then up the steep ascent they hied. 
And placed him at his mother's side; 
And gently did the Bard 
Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid. 
And bade them better mind their trade. 
1800. 



XII. 

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 
" Retina vim islam, falsa enim dicam, ^icoges.* 

EUSEBIUS 

I have a boy of five years old ; 
His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
And dearly lie loves me. 

One morn we strolled on our dry walk 
Our quiet home all full in view, 
And held such intermitted talk 
As we are wont to do. 



pop: MS RF.FERnrxc TO rrrE rERmn of childhood. 85 



My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
1 thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
Oiii pleasant home when spring began, 
A long, long year before. 

A day it was when I con Id bear 
Some fond regrets to entertain ; 
With so much happiness to spare, 
I could not feel a pain. 

The green earth echoed to the feet 
Ot lambs that bounded tiirough tlic glade, 
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
b'lum sunshine back to shade. 

Birds warbled round me — and each trace 
Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
Kilve, tiiought 1, was a favored place, 
And so is Liswyn farm. 

My boy beside me tripped, so slhn 
And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
And, as we talked, 1 questioned him, 
In vei-y idleness. 

" Now tell me, had you rather be," 

I said, and took him by the arm, 

" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 

Or here at Liswyn farm ? " 

In careless mood he looked at me, 
While still I held him by the arm, 
And said. " At Kilve I'd rather be 
Than here at Liswyn farm." 

" Now, little Edward, say why so . 
My little Edward, tell me why.'' — 
" I cannot tell, 1 do not know,'' — 
" Why, this is strange,'' said I ; 

" For, here are woods, hills smooth and 

warm : 
There surely must some reason b? 
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
For Kilve by the green sea." 

At this, my boy hung down his head. 
He blushed with shame, nor made reply , 
And three times to the child I said, 
« Why, Edward, tell me why .? " 

His head lie raised — there was in sight, 
;t caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
A broad and gilded vaue. 

Th&n did the boy his tongue unlock, 
And eased his mind witli cliis reply : 
" At Kilve there was no weathtd^-cock ; 
And that's tke reason why." 



O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
P'or belter lore would seldom yearu, 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of wiiat from thee 1 learn. 



XIII. 

RUR.'\L ARCHITECTURE. 

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, 

and Reginald Shore, 
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest 

not more 
Than the height of a counsellor's bag ; 
To the top ot Great How * did it please 

them to climb : 
And there they built up, without mortar or 

lime, 
A Man on the peak of the crag. 

They built him of stones gathered up as 

they lay : 
They built him and christened him all in 

one day, 
An urchin both vigorous and hale ; 
And so without scruple they called him 

Ralph Jones. 
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of 

his bones ; 
The Magog of Legbcrthwaite dale. 

Just half a week after, the wind sallied 

forth. 
And, in anger or merriment, out of the 

north, 
Coming on with a terrible pother. 
From the peak of the crag blew the giant 

away. 
And what did these school-boys ? — The very 

next day 
They went and they built up another. 

— Some little I've seen of blind boisterous 
works 

By Christian disturbers more savage than 
Turks, 

Spirits busy to do and undo: 

At remembrance whereof my blood some- 
times will fiag ; 

Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the 
crag ; 

And I'll build up a giant with you. 
i8oi. 



* Great How is a single and corspicuous 
lull, winch rises towards the foot of Thirlmore, 
on the western side of the beautiful dale of 
Legberthwaite- 



86 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD, 



XIV. 

THE PET-LAMB. 

A PASTORAL. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 
blink ; 

I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty 
creature, drink ! " 

And, locking o'er the hedge, before me I es- 
pied 

A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden 
at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb 

was all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a 

stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little 

Maiden kneel, 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its 

evening ineal. 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his 

supper took. 
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his 

tail with pleasure sliook. 
" Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in 

such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my 

own. 



*Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of 

beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a 

Now ^th her empty can the maiden turned , '^^ou know'st that twice a day I have 



What is it thou wouldst seek? what wanfe 

ing to thy heart? 
Thy limbs are they not strong ? and beau' 

tiful thou art : 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers 

they have no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustUng is 

thy ears ! 

If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy 

woollen chain. 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms I the like 

thou need'st not fear, 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

can come here. 

Rest, little young One, rest ; thou hast for- 
got the day 

When my father found thee first in places 
far away ; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert 
owned by none. 

And thy mother from thy side forevermore 
was gone 

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought 

thee home : 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither 

wouldst thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that 

did thee yean 
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could 

have been. 



away 



brousiht thee in this can 



But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did .Fresh water from the brook, as clear as 



she stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked ; and 

from a shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her 

face : 
If Nature to her tongue could measured 

numbers bring 



ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it 

is and new. 

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 
they are now. 



Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 

might sin"- : i" tlie plough ; 

* My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the 
•' What ails thee, young One ? what ? Why vvind is cold 

pull so at thy cord ? Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 



Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed 

and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, as green as grass 

can be ; 
Rest, little young One rest; what is't that 

aileth thee ? 



be thy fold. 

It will not, will not rest I — Poor creaturci 

can it be 
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work 

ing so in thee ? 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 87 



Things that I know not of belike to thee 

are dear, 
And dreams of things which thou canst 

neither see nor hear. 

Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there ; 
The little brooks that seem all pastime and 

all play. 
When they are angry, roar like lions for 

their prey 

Here thou need'st not dread the raven in 

the sky ; 
Night and day the i art safe, — our cottage 

is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at 

thy chain \ 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to 

thee again ! " 

—As homeward through the lane I went 
with lazy feet, 

This song to myself did I oftentimes re- 
peat ; 

And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line 
by line, 

That but half of it was iiers, and one half 
of it was mbie. 

Again, and once again, did 1 repeat the 
song ; • 

*' Nay,'' said I, "more than half to the dam- 
sel must belong, 

For she looked witli such a look, and she 
spake with such a tone, 

Tliat 1 almost received her heart into my 
own." 
iSoo 



XV, 

TO H. C. 

SIX YEARS OLD. 

O Tiiou ! whose fancies from afar are 

brought ; 
Who of tiiy words dost make a mock ap- 
parel, 
And fittest to unutterable thought 
The breeze-like motion and the self-born 

carol ; 
Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thy boat 



May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one iin 
agcry ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many lears 

For what may be lliy .ot in future years. 
I thought of times when Pain might be thy 

guest. 
Lord of thy house antl hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
but when she sate witiiin the touch of thee. 
O too industrious folly I 
O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
Preserve tor thee, by individual right, 
A young iamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings 

forth, 
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
fJr to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
A gem that glitters while it lives, 
And no forewarning gives; 
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
Slips in a moment out of life. 
1S02. 



XVI. 

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OB- 
JECTS 

IN CALLINO FORTH AND STftENCTHEN- 

ING THE IMAGINATION' IN BOVHOOO 

AND EARLY YOUTH. 

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

[This extract is reprinted from " ThI 
Friend."] 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity o"" 

thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
I5y day or starlight, thus from my first 

dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine forme 
The |)assions that build up our human suui, 
N(.t with the mean and vulgar works of 

Man ; 



^8 POEMS RtLFEkkiNG TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



But with high objects, with enduring 

things, 
W' th life and nature : purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear,— until we recognize 
k grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to 

me 
With stinted kindness. In November 

days. 
When vapors rolling down the valleys 

made 
A lonely scene more lonesome; among 

woods 
At noon; and mid the calm of summer 

nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
Mine was it in the fields both day and 

night, 
And by the waters, all the summer long, 
And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
The cottage-windows through the twilight 

blazed, 
1 heeded not the summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
It was a time of rapture 1 Clear and loud 
The village clock tolled six — I wheeled 

about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired liorse. 
That cares not for liis home. — All shod with 

steel 
We hissed along tha polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodl.-ffid pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; vvJnle far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the 

stars, 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 



Not seldom from the uproar 
Jnto a silent bay, or sportively 



retired 



Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuohs 

throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain . and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping througii the darkness, spin 

ning still 
'f he rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short, yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch, in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and i stood and 

watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
1799. 



XVII. 
THE LONGEST DAY. 

DDRESSED TO iMV DAUGHTER. 

Let us quit the leafy arbo.--. 
And the torrent murmuring by; 
For the sun is in his harbor, 
Weary of the open sky. 

Evening now unbinds the fetters 
Fashioned by tlie glowing light ; 
All tliat breathe are thankful debtors 
To the harbinger of night. 

Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
Eve renews her calm career : 
For the day tliat now is ended. 
Is the longest of the year. 

Dora 1 sport, as now thou sportest, 
On this platform, hght and free ; 
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. 
Are indifferent to thee ! 

Who would check the happy feeling 
That inspires the linnet's song ? 
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
On her pinions swift and strong ? 

Yet at this impressive season, 
Words which tenderness can speak 
From the truths of liomely reason 
Might exalt the loveliest cheek ; 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHI LI) //OOP 89 



And, while shades to shades succeeding 
Steal tlie landscape from the sight, 
i would urge this moral pleading, 
Last forerunner of " Good-night ! " 

Stmmer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
Is a reflux from on liigh, 
Tendmg to the darksome hollows 
Where the frosts of winter lie. 

Wf who governs the creation, 
In ins providence, assigned 
Suc'ii a gradual declination 
1 o the life of human kind. 

Vf t we mark it not ;— fruits redden, 
ImcsIi flowers "blow, as flowers have blown, 
And the heart is loth to deaden 
Hopes that she so long hath known. 

Be thou wiser, youtlifiil Maiden ! 
And when tiiy decline shall come, 
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden 
Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
Tiiat absorbs time, space and number ; 
Look thou to Eternity ! 

Follow thou the flowing river 
On whose breast are thither borne 
All deceived, and each deceiver, 
Tlirough the gates of night and morn ; 

Through the year's successive portals ; 
Through the lx)unds which many a star 
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 
When his light returns from far. 

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 
Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
And the mazy stream unravelled 
With thy best imaginings ; 

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
Think how pitiful that stay, 
Did not virtue give the meanest 
Chainis superior to decay. 

Duty, like a strict preceptor. 
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown 
Choose her thistle for thy scei:)tre 
While youth's roses are thy crown. 

Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, 
Fairest damsel of the green. 
Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
That proclaims a genuine queen 1 



And ensures those palms of honor 
Which selected spirits wear, 
r)ending low before the Donor, 
Lord of heaven's unchanging yearl 
1817. 



xvin 
THE NORMAN BOY. 

High on a broad unfertile tract of fnrest- 

skirted Down, 
Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made 

by man his own, 
From home and rompany remote and every 

playful joy. 
Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a 

ragged Norman Boy. 

Him never saw f, nor the spot ; but from 

an English Dame, 
Stranger to me, and yet my friend, a simple 

notice came, 
Witii suit that I would speak in verse (»f 

tliat sequestered child 
Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met 

upon the dreary Wild. 

His flock, among the woodland's edge with 
relics sprinkled o'er 

Of last niglit's snow, beneath a sky threaten- 
ing the fall of more. 

Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were 
busy at their feed. 

And the pooi Boy was busier still, with 
work of anxious heed. 

There was he, where of branches rent and 

withered and decayed. 
For covert from the keen north wind, his 

hands a hut had made 
A tiny tenement, forsooth and frail, as needs 

must be 
A thing of such materials framed, by a 

builder such as he. 

The hut stood finished by his pains, no, 

seemingly lacked aught 
That skill or means of his could add, but the 

architect had wrought 
Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped 

with fingers nice. 
To be engrafted on the top of his small edi. 

fice. 

That Cross he now was fastening there, as 

the surest power and best 
For supplying all deficiencieSj all wants of 

the rude nest 



|0 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



In which, from burning licat, or tempest 

driving far and wide, 
Tlie innocent Boy, else siielterlcss, Ins lonely 

head must hide. 

That Cross belike he also raised as a stand- 
ard for the true 

And faithful service of his heart in the w st 
that might ensue 

Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the 
houseless waste 

Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Prov- 
i'lence was placed. 

Here, L-idy ! might I cease ; but nay, 

let HS before we part 
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a 

prayer of earnest heart, 
That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's 

appointed way. 
The Cross, hxed in his soul, may prove an 

all-sufficing stay. 



XIX- 

THE POET'S DREAM. 

SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOV. 

Just as those final words were penned, the 

sun broke out in power, 
And gladdened all things ; but, as chanced, 

witliin that very hour, 
Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed 

from clouds that hid the sky, 
And for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved 

a pensive sigh. 

Nor could my heart by second thoughts from 
heaviness be cleared. 

For bodied forth before my eyes the cross- 
crowned hut appeared ; 

And, while around it storm as fierce seemed 
troubling earth and air, 

I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling 
alone in prayer. 

Tiie Child, as if the thunder's voice spake 
with articulate call, 

Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the 
Lord of All ; 

His lips Arere moving ; and his eyes, up- 
raised to sue for grace, 

With soft illumination cheered the dimness 
of tnat place. 

How beautiful is holiness ! — what wonder if 

the sight, 
Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a 

drfiam at night f 



It came with sleep and showed the Boy,n3 

cherub, not transformed. 
But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my 

human heart had warmed. 

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so 

I took him in my arms, 
And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling hi? 

faint alarms, 
And bore him high through yielding air my 

debt of love to i)ay, 
By giving him, for botli our sakcs, an hour 

of holiday. 

I whispered, " Yet a little while, dear Child ! 
thou art my own, 

To show tiiee some delightful thing, in coun- 
try or in town. 

What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or 
that holy place and calm 

St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the 
Church of Notre Dame .' 

" St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? Or choose 

what else would please thee most 
Of any wonder, Normandy, or all proud 

France, can boast ! " 
" My Mother," said the P>oy, "was born 

near to a blessed Tree, 
The Chapel Oak of Allonvillc ; good Angel, 

show it me 1 " 

On wings, from broad and steadfast poise 

let loose by this reply. 
For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away 

then did we fly ; 
O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in 

May's fresh verdure drest ; 
The wings they did not flag ; the Child, 

though grave, was not dcprest. 

But who shall show, to waking sense, the 

gleam of light that broke 
Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy 

looked down on tliat huge oak. 
For length of days ?o much revered, sc 

famous where it stands 
For twofold hallowinc:— Nature's care, anc 

work of human hands ? 

Strong as an eagle with my charge I glided 

round and : ound 
The wide-sprad boughs. f( r view of door, 

window, and stair that wound 
Gracefully up the gnarled trunk ; nor lef 

we unsurveyrd 
The pointed stec) le peering forth from tht 

centre of the shade. 



FOEMS RKFKh'K/AC. 7(' rHE FhRIOD OF CHILDHOVIK 91 



1 liglited — opened will' soft touch the 
chapel's iron door, 

Past softly, Icadini; in \\v^ Hoy, and, wlnie 
from roof to Hoor. 

From Hoor to roof all round his eyes the 
Child witli Wdiidi'r cast, 

VIeasure on pleasure crowded in, each live- 
lier than the last. 

Fc r. deftly framed within the trunk, tlir 

sanctuary "^imwed, 
f!v ii'^ht ot lamp and jwccious stones, that 

glimmered l;ere, there flowed, 
Shrine, Altar, lnia<);e, Offerings hung in sign 

ol gratitude ; 
I. 'Jit tliat inspired accordant thoughts ; and 

speech 1 thus renewed ; 

' iMhcr the Afflicted conic, as thou liast 

iieard thy Motiicr say, 
And, kneeling, supplication nial;e to our 

I.aiiv deia I'aix ; 
W'h.it mournful sighs have here been heard, 

and, wlien the voice was stopt 
By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on 

tins pavement dropt ! 

*■ i'oor Shepherd of the naked Dov/n, a 

favf)red lot is thine. 
Far liappier lot, dear Boy, tlian brings full 

many to this shrine ; 
From body pains and pains of soul tho 

needest no release, 
Thy hours as tliey flow on are spent, if n(i 

in joy, in peace. 

" Then offer up thy heart to God in thank 

fulness and praise, 
Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, 

in thy most busy days ; 
And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy 

small hut, will be 
Holy as that which long hath crowned the 

Chapel of this Tree ; 

• Holy as that far seen which crowns the 

sumptuous Church of Rome 
Where thousands meet to woiship God 

under a mighty Dome ; 
He sees the bending multitude, he hears the 

choral rites. 
Yet not the less, in children's hymns and 

lonely prayer, delights. 

"God for his service needeth not proud 

woik of linman skill ; 
They please him best who labor most to do 

in peace his will ; 



So let us strive to live, and to our spirits will 

be tjiven 
Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall 

bear us up to heaven." 

'1 he I5oy no answer made by words, but, so 
earnest was his look. 

Sleep tk-il, and with i't tied the draim -re- 
corded in this book. 

Lest all that passed slioiild melt away in 
silence from my mind. 

As visions still moi'c bright have done, and 
Ictt no tnsce behind. 

^iut oh ! that Country-man of tliine, whose 

eye, loved Child, can see 
A pledge of endless bhss in acts of early 

piety, 
In ver.se, whicii to thy ear might come, 

would treat this simpl tlu^mc. 
Nor leave untold our happy ffiglit in that 

adventurous dream. 

Alas the dream, to thee, poor T.oy ' to thee 

from whom it flowed, 
Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 

'twas bounteously bestowed. 
If I may dare to cherish hope t-hat gentle 

eyes will read 
Not loth, and listening Little-ones, hcait- 

touched, their fancies feed. 



XX. 

THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 

TO MY GR.VNDCIMLDREN. 



Seek who will delight in fable, 
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 

Far and wide on hill and valley 
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain. 
And the bleating mother's Young one 
Struggled with the flood in vain : 

But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
(Ten years scarcely had she told) 
Seeing, plunged into the torrent. 
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold 

Whirled adown the rocky channel. 
Sinking, rising, on they go, 
Peace and rest, as seems, before the« 
Only in the lake below. 



92 POEM:: REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILE HOOD. 



Oh ! U was a friglitful current, 
\Vlior<e fierce wrath the (lirl iiad braved 
Clap your hands with joy. my Hearers, 
Shout in triumph, both are saved j 

Saved l^y courage that with danger 
Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
And belike a ouardian angel 
Came with succor from above. 



PART II. 

Now, tij a maturer Audience, 
Let uie speak of this brave Child 
Ixit among her native mountains 
With wild Nature to run wild. 

So, unwatched by love maternal, 
Mother's care no more her guide. 
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan 
Even while at her father's side. 

Spare your blame, — remembrance makes 

him 
I.olh to rule by strict command ; 
Still upon his check are living 
Touches of her infant hand. 

Dear caresses given in piiy, 
Sympathy that soothed his grief, 
As the dying mother witnessed 
To lier thankful mind's relief. 

Time passed on ; the Child was happy, 
Like a spirit of air she moved, 
Wayward, yet by all who knew her 
For her tender heart beloved. 

.'^carce^y less than sacred passions. 
Bred in house, in grove, and field, 
Link hf^r with the inferior creatures, 
Urge her powers their rights to shield. 

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, 
Learn hov/ she can feel alike 
Both for tiny harmless minnow 
And the fierce and bharp-tuothed pike. 



Merciful protectress, kindling 
Into anger or chsdain ; 
Many a captive hath she rescued, 
Others saved from lingering pain. 

Listen yet awhile ; — with patience 
Hear the homely truths I tell, 
She in ( irasmere's old church-steejjle 
Tolled this day the passing-bell. 

Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 
To their echoes gave liic sound. 
Notice punctual as the minute, 
Warning solemn and profound. 

Sli'i, fulfilling her sire's office, 
Rang alone the far-heard knell. 
Tribute, by licr hand, in sorrow, 
Paid to One who loved her well. 

When his spirit was depaitcd 
On that service she went Icitii ; 
Nor will fail the like to rer.der 
When his corse is laid in earth. 

What then wants the Child to temper, 
In her breast, unruly fire, 
'J"o control the froward impulse 
And restrain the vague desire .-' 

P^asily a pious training 
And a steadfast outwaid power 
Would supplant the weeds and cherish, 
In their stead, each opening flower. 

Tluis the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer 
Woman-grown, meck-heartcd, sage, 
I\Tay become a blest example 
For her sex, of every age. 

Watchful as a wheeling eagle, 
Constant as a soaring lark. 
Should the country need a heroine, 
She might prove our Maid of Arc. 

Leave that tliought ; and here be uttered 
Prayer that Grace divine may raise 
Her humane courageous spirit 
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful way3« 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



THF BROTHERS. 

" These Tourists, lieaven preserve us ! 

needs must live 
A profitable life : some glance along, 
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 
Perclicd on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
Pencil in liand and book upon the knee. 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder ^ — In our church- 
yard 
Js neither epitaph nor monument, 
Tombstone nor name — only the turf we 

tread 
And a few natural graves.'' 

To Jane, his wife, 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening ; and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the 

stone 
His wife sate near him, teasing matted 

wool, 
While, from the twin cards toothed with 

glittering wire, 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, 
Her large round wheel was turning. To- 
wards the field 
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone. 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had 

sent 
Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white 

ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had 

piled 



He laid his implements with gentle care, 
Each in the other locked ; and, down the 

path 
That from his cottage to the church-yard 

led. 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering 

there. 

'Twas one well known to him in former 

days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth 

year 
Had left that calling, tempted to intrust 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters ; with the mariners 
A fellow-mariner ;— and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been 

reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a shepherd on tlie stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard 

heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular 

wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 
And blew with the same breath through 

days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary lin 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those 

hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad blue wave and spark 

ling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that 

wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart. 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep 

that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among 

trees, 
And shepherds clad in the same country 

gray 
Wiiich he himself had worn. 



94 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



And now, at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small 

wealth 
Acqiiired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned. 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there; both for the 

sake 
Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother-shepherds on their native 

hills. 
— They were the last of all their race : and 

now, 
Wlien Leonard had approached his home, 

his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to en- 
quire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 
That, as he knew in what [articular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. — He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half-hour 
He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there 

grew 
Such a confusion in his memory, 
That he began to doubt ; and even to hope 
That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
That it was not another grave ; but one 
He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
Through fields which once had been well 

known to him : 
And oh what joy this recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! he lifted uj) his eves, 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrouglit on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the 

rocks 
And everlasting hills themsel '^s were 

changed. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had 

come, 
Unseen by Leonard, at the church yard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb 

by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Ay, thought the Vicar, smilim, to himself, 
'Tis one of tliose who needs must leave the 

path 
Of the world's business tn vo wild alone: 
His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 



The happy man will creep about the fields 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
Into his face, until the setting sun 
'A'rite fool upon his foiehead. — Planted thus 
l>eneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars ap- 
peared 
The good Man might have communed witii 

himself, 
But that the Stranger, who had left the 

grave, 
Approached; he recognized the Priest at 

once, 
And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a 

quiet life : 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome 

come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each 

other, 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a 

funeral 
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen 

months ; 
And yet, some changes must take place 

among you : 
An 1 you, who dwell here, even among these 

n^cks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality, 
And sec, tha*" with cur threescore years and 

ten 

We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 

(For many years ago I passed this road) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields 
^>y the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark 

cleft I 
J me it does not seem to wear the face 
' ;ch then it had! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 

That chasm } much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder— 

Priest, .'^y, there, indeed, your memory 

is a friend 
That does not play you false.— On that tall 

pike 
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
There were two springs which bubbled side 

by side. 
As if they had been made that they might be 
Companions for each other : the huge crag 
Was rent with lightning — one hath disap- 
peared ; 
The other, left behind, is flowing still. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON TFfE AFFECTIONS. 



For accidents and chans;es such as these 
We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
Will brin_2; down half a mountain ; what a 

feast 
For folks that wander up and down like vou, 
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 
Will come with loads of January snow, 
i^nd in one night send twenty score of 

sheep 
To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 
P.y some untoward death among the rocks : 
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a 

bridge ; 
A wood is felled : — and then for our own 

homes ! 
A child is born or christened, a field 

ploughed, 
A daughter sent to service, a web spun. 
The old house-clock is decked with a new 

face; 
And hence, st> far from wanting facts or 

dates 
To chronicle the time, we all have here 
A pair of diaries,— one serving. Sir, 
For the whole dale, and one for each fire- 
side — 
Yours was a stranger's judgment : for his- 
torians, 
Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Vet your Cliurch-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with 

you, 
To say tliat you are heedless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's 

grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of 

brass, [state 

Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly 
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's 

home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought 

that's new to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their 

bread 
If every English church-yard were like ours ; 
/et your conclusion wanders from the truth ; 
We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! 7vc want 
No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plam talc : 
The thought of death sits easy on the man 
Wlio has been born and dies among the 

mountains. 
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in 

each other's thoughts 



Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I've witnessed, and with what 

I've heard. 
Perhaps I might : and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
We two coul.l travel, Sir, through a Strang:. 

round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon 

it,— 
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'Tis a common case. 

We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three 
graves ? 
j It touches on that piece of native rock 

Left in the church-yard wall. 
I Priest. That's Walter Ewbank. 

I lie had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
I As ever were produced by youth and age 

Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
I Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed tiic 
I bounds 

Of their inheritance, that single cottage— 
You see it yonder I and those few green 
fields. [to son, 

I They toiled and wrought, and still, from siri 
FLach struggled, and each yielded as before 
' A little— yet a little,— and old Walter, 
j They left to liim the family heart, and lanJ 

With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
, Year after year the old man still kept up 
[ A cheerful mind,— and buffeted with bond, 

Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
I And went into his grave before his time 
j Poor Walter ! whether it was care that 
j stirred him 

j God only knows, but to the very last 

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
j His pace was never that of an old man : 

I almost see him tripping down the path 
: With his two grandsons after him :— but 
you. 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
Have far to travel, — and on these rou[;i- 

paths 
Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
Leonard. But those two Orphans I 
Priest. Orphans !- -Such they wer^-- 
Yet not while Walter lived:— for, though 
their parents 



96 



POEMS FOUNDED ON TtTE AEFECTlONS. 



Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys, 
Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 
Shed when he talked of them where they 

were not, 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
Ar, aught of wiiat makes up a mother's 

heart, 
Phis old Man, in the day of his old age, 
Was half a mother to them, — If you weep. 

To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among your 

kindred ! 
Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man ? — 

Priest. They did — and truly : 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. 

Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with 

Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason ot his age 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; 
Tiiey, notwithstanding, had much love to 

spare. 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
Was tWo years taller : 'twas a joy to see. 
To hear, to meet them ! — From their house 

the school 
Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
And unbridged stream, such as you may 

have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps. 
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys re- 
mained 
At hon^.e, go staggering through the slippery 

fords. 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen 

him, 
On windy days, in one of those stray 

brooks. 
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid- 
leg deep. 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
Upon the hither side, and once I said, 
Ar> I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were born. 
That God who made tht great book of the 

world 
Would bless such piety — 



Leonard. It may be then— 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break 

English bread ; 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 
Could never keep those boys away from 

church, 
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot coiild reach, to one or 

both 
Was known as well as to* the flowers that 

grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the 

hills ; 
They played like two young ravens on the 

crags : [well 

Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 
The very night before he went away. 
In my own house 1 put into his hand 
A bible, and I'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have 

not lived to be 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest. That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished. 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed; 
But Leonard — 
Leonard. Then James still is left among 

you! 
Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am 

speaking : 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud 
For the boy loved the life which we lead 

here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling 

only. 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent ; when he died. 
The estate and house were sold ; and all 

their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught 1 know, 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand 

years : — 
Well — all was gone, and they were destitute 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake 
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since wc iiad tidings 

irom him. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



97 



If there were one among us wlio had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home 

again, 
From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's 

banks, 
And down the Enna, far as Egreniunt, 
Tlie day would be a joyous festival ; 
And those two bells of ours, whicli there you 

see — 
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir ! 
This" is' sad talk — they'll never sound for 

him— 
Living or dead. — When last we heard of 

him, 
He was in slavery among the Moors 
Upon the Barbary coast. — 'Twas not a 

little 
That would bring down his spirit ; and no 

doubt. 
Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard! when 

we parted. 
He took me by the hand, and said to me. 
If e'er he should grow rich, he would re- 
turn, 
To live in peace upon his father's land. 
And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day 

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day 

for liim ; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were 

in their graves, 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youtli 
James, tliough not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him, 
Tiiat, though he was not of a timid nature, 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked ; and, when 

his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
The little color that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and 

pined, and pined — 
Leonard. But these are all the graves of 

full-grown men ! 



* Tht Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from 
its resemblance to the gnble end of a house, is 
one of the highest of the Cumberland moun- 
tains. 

The Leeza is a river which flows into the 
Lake of Ennerdale. 



Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we 

took him to us ; 
He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months 

with another ; 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 

love : 
And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, wt 

found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 
That often, rising from his bed at night. 
He in his sleep would walk about, and 

sleeping 
He sought his brother Leonard. — You are 

moved ! 
Forgive me. Sir : before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest . One sweet May morning, 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring 

returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped 

lambs. 
With two or three companions, whom their 

course 
Of occupation led from height to height 
Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale. 
Whence by our shepherds it is called The 

Pillar. 
Upon its aiiry summit crowned with heath, 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 
Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the 

place [g""c. 

On their return, they found that he was 
No ill was feared ; till one of them by 

chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the 

house 
Which at that time was James's home, there 

learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day: 
The morning came, and still he was un« 

heard of : 
The neighbors were alarmed, and to the 

brook 
Some hastened : some ran to the lake : en 

noon 



98 



POEMS FOUNDED ON' THE AFFECTIONS. 



Tliey found him at the foot of tliat same 

rock 
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third 

day after 
i buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! 
Leonard. And that then is his grave! — 

Before iiis death 
Vou say that he saw many happy years ? 
Priest. Ay, that he did— 
Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 
Priest. If he had one, the youtli had 

twenty homes. 
Leonard. And you believe, then, that his 

mind was easy ? — 
Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found 

that time 
I:, a true friend to sorrow,; and unless 
His thoughts were turned en Leonard's 

luckless fortune, 
He talked about him with a cheerful Idvc. 
Lronafd. He could not come to an un- 
hallowed end! 
Priest. Nay, God forbid! — You recollect 

1 mentioned 
A haijit which disquietude and grief 
Had lirought upon him ; and wc all conjec- 
tured 
Tliat, as the clay was warm, he had lain 

down 
On the soft lieath, — and, waiting for his 

comrades. 
He there had fallen asleep ; tliat in his 

sleep 
He to the margin of the precipice 
Had walked, and from the summit had 

fallen headlong • 
And so no doubt lie perished. When the 

Youth [think, 

Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we 
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of 

rock 
It had been caught midway ; and there for 

years 
It hung ; — and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended — 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but 

he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the jpo't in 

silence ; 
And Leonard, when they reached the 

church-yard gate. 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned 

round, — 
And, looking at the grave, he said, " My 

Brother!" 



The Vicar did not hear the words : and now 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, ;n 

treating 
That Leonard would partake his homely 

fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest 

voice ; 
But added, that, the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they 

parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a 
grove 
That overhung the road : he there stopjicd 
short, 

And, sitting down beneath the trees, re- 
viewed 
All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him :— liis long absence, chcrislied 

hopes, 
And tliougiits which had been his an hour 

before. 
All prcssecl on him with such a weight that 

now 
This vale, where he had been so happy, 

seemed 
A place in which he could not bear to live ; 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 
He travelled back to Egrcmont : and thence, 
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
Reminding him of what had passed between 

them ; 
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
'J'liai it was from the weakness of his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
'J'liis done, he went on shipl)oard, and is now 
A SeaiudU, a gray-headed Maimer. 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 

(see the chronicle of GEOFFREY OF 
MONMOUTH AND ivIILTON'S HISTORY OF 
ENGLAND.) 

Where be the temples which, in Britain's 

Isle, 
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan laised? 
Gone like a morning dream, or like a i)ile 
Of clouds that ir. cerulean ether blazed ! 
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore. 

They sank, delivered o'er 
To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween. 
No vestige then was left that such luid 

ever been. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



99 



Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
In old Armorica, whose secret springs 
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
The marvellous current of forgotten things ; 
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, 

And Albion's giants quelled 
A brood whom no civility could melt, 
" Who never tasted grace, and goodness 
ne'er had felt."' 

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
And rooted out the intolerable kintl ; 
And this too-long-polluted land inibi 
With goodly arts and usages refined ; 
Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike 

towers. 
And pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; 
Whence all the fixed delights of house and 

home, 
Friendships that will not break, and love 

that cannot roam. 
O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
For self-delighting fancy to endure 
That silence only shoukl inhabit there, 
Wild beasts, or uncoutli savages impure' ! 
But, intermingled with the generous seed, 

Grew many a poisonous weed ; 
Thus fares it still with all that takes its 

birth 
From human care, or grows upon the breast 

of earth. 
Hence, and how soon ! that war of venge- 
ance waged 
By Gucndolcn against licr faithless lord ; 
Till she, in jealous fury unassuagcd 
Had slain his paramour witli ruthless sword : 
Then into Severn hideously defiled. 

She flung her blameless child, 
Sabrina.— vowing that the stream should 

bear 
That name through every age, her hatred to 

declare. 

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
Ye lightnings, hear his voice!— they cannot 

hear. 
Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
But One there is, a Child of nature meek, 

Who comes her Sire to seek, 
And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect 

rest. 
There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, 
And those that Milton luved in youthful 

years ; 
The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; 



The feats of Arthur and his knightly pter«? ; 
Of Aithur, — who to upper light restored, 

Witli that terrific sword 
Which yet he brandishes for future war. 
Shall lift his country's fame abc.e the polat 
star ! 

What wonder, then, ii in such ample field 
Of old tradition, one particular flower 
Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield 
Ar.d bloom unnoticed even to this late hour \ 
Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 

While I tliis flower transplant 
Into a garden stored with Poesy ; 
Where flowers and herbs unite, and liapW 

some weeds be, 
That, wanting not wild grace, are from ;ill 

mischief free ! 

A King more worthy of respect and iovc 
Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day ; 
And grateful Britain prospered far above 
All neighboring countries through lus 

righteous sway ; 
He poured rewards and honors on the good; 

The oppressor he withstood ; 
And while he served the Gods witli rever- 
ence due 
Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns 
and cities grew. 

He died, whom ,\rtegal succeeds — his son 
But how unworthy of that sire was he ! 
A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun. 
Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
From crime to crime he mounted, till ?.t 

length 
The nobles leagued their strength 
W'ith a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; 
And, on the vacant throne, his worthier 

brother placed. 

From realm to realm the humble Exile went, 

Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 

In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 

He urged his persevering suit in vain. 

Him, in whose wretched heart ambition 
failed. 
Dire poverty assailed ; 

And, tired with slights his pride no. more 
could brook, 

He towards his native country cast a long- 
ing look. 

Fair blew the wished-for wind— the voyag* 

sped ; 
He landed ; and, by many dangers scared, 
*' Poorly provided, poorly followM," 
To Calaterium's forest he rtpaire4» 



100 



POEMS FOUNDED OAT THE AFFECTIONS. 



How changed from him who, born to highest 
p'acc, 
Had swayed the royal mace, 
Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, 
In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's 
side 1 

From that wild region wOiere the crownless 

King 
Lay in concealment with his scanty train, 
Supporting life by water from the spring, 
And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, 
Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 

A messenger he sends ; 
And from their secret loyalty requires 
Shelter and daily bread, — the sum of his 
desires. 

While he the issue waits, at early morn 
Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to 

liear 
A startling outcry made by hound and horn, 
I'"rom which the tusky wild boar flies in fear ; 
And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy 
]ilain. 
Behold the hunter train ! 
He bids his little company advance 
With seeming unconcern and steady coun- 
tenance. 

The royal Elidure. who leads the chase. 
Hath tiieckcd his foaming courser : — can it 

be! 
Mothinks that I should recognize that face, 
Though much disguised by long adversity I 
He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, 

Confounded and amazed — 
" It is the king, my brother ! " and, by sound 
Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon 
the ground. 

Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he 
gave, 

Feebly returned by daunted Artegal ; 

Whose natural affection doubts enslave, 

And apprehensions dark and criminal. 

Loth to restrain the moving interview, 
Tiie attendant lortls withdrew ; 

And, while they stood upon the plain apart, 

Thus Klidure, by words, relieved his strug- 
gling heart. 

" By heavenly Powers conducted, we have 

met ; 
—O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so long. 
But neither lost to love, nor to regret, 
J^or tp my wishes lost ; — forgive the wrong, 



(Such it may seem) if I thy crown hav« 

borne, 
Thy royal mantle worn : 
I was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just 
That now I should restore what hath been 

held in trust." 

Awhile the astonished Artegal stood mute, 
Then thus exclaimed; "To me, of titles 

shorn, 
And stripped of power ! me, feeble, destitute. 
To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn : 
if justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 

Then, on the wide-spread wings 
Of war, had 1 returned to claim my right ; 
This will I here avow, not dreading thy 

despite." 

" I do not blame thee," Elidure replied ; 
" But, if my looks did with my words agree, 
I should at once be trusted, not defied, 
And thou from all disquietude be free. 
May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, 

Who to this blessed place 
At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
With insincere intent, on me her vengeance 
wreak ! 

Were this same spear, which in my hand I 

grasp, 
The British sceptre, here would I to thee 
The symbol yield , and would undo this 

clasp. 
If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 
Odious to me the pomp of regal court, 

And joyless sylvan sport, 
While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn, 
Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the 

forest thorn ! " 

Then Artegal thus spake : " I only sought 
Within this realm a place of safe retreat ; 
Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; 
Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet I 
Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 

Art pitiably blind : 
Full soon this.generous purpose thou may'st 

rue. 
When that which has been done no wishes 
can undo. 

Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, 
Would balance claim with claim, and right 

with right ? 
But thou — I know not how inspired, how 

led— 
Wouldst change the course of things in al] 

Hicu's sight ! 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



101 



And this for one who cannot imitate 

Thy virtue, who may hate : 
For, if, by such stran'^e sacrifice restored, 
He reign, thou still must be his king and 
sovereign lord ; 

Lifted in magnanimity above 
Aught that my feeble nature could perform, 
Or even conceive ; surpassing me m love 
Far as in power the eagle doth the worm : 
I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 

And govern to my shame ; 
A shadow in a hated land, while all 
Of glad or willing service to thy share would 
fall." 

•' Believe it not," said Elidure ; " respect 
Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
Attends on goodness with dominion decked. 
Which stands the universal empire's boast , 
This can thy own experience testify ; 

Nor shall thy foes deny 
That, in the gracious opening of thy reign. 
Our father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe 



And what if o'er that bright unbosoming 
Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! 
Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? 
Tlie frith that glittered like a warrior's 
shield. 
The sky, the rnv green field. 
Are vanished ; gladiiess ceases in the groves, 
And trepidation strikes the blackened moun- 
tain coves. 

But is that gloom dissolved, how passing 

clear 
Seems the wide world, far brighter than 

before ! 
Even so thy latent worth will re-appear. 
Gladdening the people's heart from shore to 

shore ; 
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone; 

Re-seatcd on thy throne, 
Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, 

pain, 
And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right 

to reign. 

But, not to overlook what thou may'stknow, 
Thy enemies are neither weak nor few ; 
And circumspect must be our course, and 

slow, 
Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. 
Dismiss thy followers ; — let them calmly 

wait 
Such changes in thy estate 



As I already have m thought devised ; 
And which, with caution due, may soon b« 

realized." 

The Story tells what courses were pursued. 
Until king Elidure, with full consent 
Of all his peers, before the multitude, 
Rose, — and, to consummate this just intent, 
Did place u})on his brother's head the crown, 

Relinquished by his own ; 
Then to his people cried, " Receive your 

lord, 
Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful 

king restored ! " 

The people answered with a loud acclaim : 
Yet more ;— heart-smitten by the heroic 

deed. 
The reinstated Artegal became 
Earth's noblest penitent ; from bondage 

freed 
Of vice — thenceforth unable to subvert 

Or shake his high desert. 
Long did he reign ; and, when he died, the 

tear 
Of universal grief bedewed his honored bier. 

Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved ; 
With whom a crown (temptation that hath 

set 
Discord in hearts of men till they have 

braved 
Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, did 

seem 
A thing of no esteem ; 
Anil from this triumph of affection pure, 
He bore the lasting name of " Pious Eli' 

dure!" 
1815. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 
I've watch'd you now a full half-hour, 
Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
More motionless ! and then 
W^bat joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 
And calls you forth again ! 

Tills plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
My trees they are, my Sister's Howns , 
Here rest voiir wings when thcvare weary; 
Here lodge ai in a sanctuary ! 



tC3 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Come often to us, fear no wrong; 
Sit near us on the bough ! 
We'll talk of sunshine and of song, 
And summer days, when we were young 
Sweet childish days, that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 
iSoi. 



IV. 

A FAREWELL. 

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain- 
ground, 
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
Of that magnificent temple which doth 

bound 
One side of our whole vale with grandeur 

rare ; 
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
Farewell! — we leave thee to Heaven's 

peaceful care. 
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost sur- 
round. 

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore. 
And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble 

door 
Will prosper, though unttnded and alone : 
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have 

none : 
These narrow bounds contain our private 

store 
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine 

upon ; 
Here are they in our sight — we have no 

more. 

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and 

bell ! 
For two months now in vain we shall be 

sought ; 
We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
Wit!) these our latest gifts of lender thought; 
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
Briglit govvan, and marsh-marigold, fare- 

welfj 
Whom from the borders of the Lake we 

brought, 
Anu placed together near our rocky Well. 

We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian 

shed, 
Our own contrivance, Building without 

petr I 



— A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful 

cheer, 
Will come to you ; to you herself wi" wed ; 
And love the blessed life that we leaa iicre. 

Dear Spot ! which we have watched with 

tender heed, 
Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms 

blown 
Among the distant mountains, flower and 

weed. 
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. 
Making all kindness registered and known. 
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child 

indeed, 
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 

And O most constant, yet most fickle 

Place, 
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost 

show 
To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost 

know, 
And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let 

them go I " 
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
And travel with the year at a soft pace. 

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, 
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and 

best; 
Joy will be flown in its mortality; 
Something must stay to tell us of th<' rest. 
Here, tlironged with primroses, the steep 

rock's breast 
Glittered at eveni,ng like a starry sky ; 
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
Of which I sang one song that will not die. 

O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours , 
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of 

flowers. 
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers, 
Two burning months let summer overleap, 
And, coming back with Her who will beouri 
Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 
1802, 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



1^3 



STANZAS. 



WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOM- 
SON'S CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
Whom without blame 1 may not overlook ; 
For never sun on living creature shone 
Who more devout enjoyment with us took ; 
Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
On his own time here would he float away, 
v\s doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 
Hut go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
beck lor him,— he is fled ; and whither 
none can say. 

Thus often would he leave our peaceful 

home, 
And fmd elsewhere his business or delight ; 
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 
Full many a time, upon a stormy ivght, 
His voice came to us from the neighboring 

height : 
Oft could we see him driving full in view 
At mid-day when the sun was shining 

bright ; 
What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet 

crew. 

Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
When he came back to us, a withered 

flower, — 
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
Down would he sit ; and without strength 

or power 
Look at the common grass from hour to 

hour : 
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. 
Where apple-trees in blossom made a 

bower, 
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself 

away. 

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 
F^or happier soul no. living creature has 
Than he had, being here the long day 

through. 
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: 
Some thought far worse of him, and judged 

him wrong ; 
But verse was what he had been wedded 

to: 



And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
Come to him thus, and drove the weary 
Wight along. 

With him there often walked in friendly 

guise, 
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
A noticeable Man, with large gray eyes, 
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
As if a blooming face it ought to be; 
Heavy his low -hung lip did oft appear, 
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
Profound his forehead was, though not se- 
vere ; 
Yet some did think that he had little busi- 
ness here : 

Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful 

right ; 
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 
His limbs would toss about him with de- 
light, 
Like branches when strong winds the trees 

annoy. 
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
To banish l.stlessness and irksome care , 
He would have taught you how you might 

employ 
Yourself ; and many did to him repair, — 
And certes not in vain ; he had inventions 
rare. 

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
Long blades of grass plucked round him as 

he lay. 
Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
A pipe on which the wind would deftly 

play ; 
Glasses he had, that little things display, 
The beetle panoplied in gems of gold, 
A mailed angel on a' battle-day ; 
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do 

behold. 

He would entice that other Man to hear 
His music, and to view his imagery : 
And, sooth, these two were each to the 

other dear ; 
No livelier love in such a place could be : 
There did they dwell— from earthly labor 

free, 
As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
If but a bird, to keep them company, 
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween. 
As pleased as if the same had been a 

Maiden-queen. 
1802. 



104 



POEMS I'OUNPEJ) OiV THE AFFECriONS. 



VI. 

LOUISA. 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUN- 
TAIN EXCURSION. 

I MET Louisa in the shade, 

And, having seen tiiat lovely Maid, 

Why should I fear to say 

That, nymph-likc, she is fleet and strong. 

And down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May ? 

She loves her fire, her cottage home ; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak ; 
And, when ;u^ainst the wind she strains, 
Oil ! might 1 kiss the mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek. 

Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," 

It 1 witii her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 

Ot some old cave, or mossy nook, 

When up she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 

•~f8'o5. 



VII. 

Strange fits of passion have 1 known : 

And I will dare to tell, 

But in the Lover's ear alone 

What once to me befel. 

When she I loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 

All over the wide lea ; 

With quickening pace my liorse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached the orchard-plot ; 
And, as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
\\c rais-vd, and never stopped : 
When down behind the cottage-roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 



What fond and wayward thoughts will siiil« 
Into a Lover's head ! 
" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
" If Lucy should be dead!" 
1799. 



She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the sprnigs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to }iiaisp 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few C(.uld know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is ni Jier gnive, and, oh. 

The difference to me 1 
1790. 



IX, 

I travelled among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England I did 1 know till then 

What love 1 bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream I 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my dcbue ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel ) 

Beside an English tire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
The bowers where Lucy played ; 

.\nd thine too is the last green field j 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. ,/ 
1799. 



Ere with cold beads of midnight clew 

Had mingled tears of thine, 
I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst 
sue 

To haughty Geraldine. 

Immovable by generous sighs. 

She glories in a train 
Who drag, beneath our native skieSj 

An oriental chain. 



Poems founded on the affections. 



I OS 



Pine not like them with arms across, 

Forgetting in thy care 
How tlie fast-rooted trees can toss 

Their branches in mid air. 

The humblest rivulet will take 

Its own wild liberties ; 
And, rvery day, the imprisoned lake 

Is Howing m the breeze. 

Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, 
But scorn with scorn outbrave ; 

A Briton, even in love, should be 
A subject, not a slave ! 
1826. 



TO . 

IvOOK at the fate of summer flowers, 
Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even- 
song : 
And, grieved for their brief date, confess 

that ours, 
Measured by vvlKit we are and ought to be, 
Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
Is not so long ! 

If human Life do pass away, 
Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, 
if we are creatures of a winter'' s day ; 
What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose 
Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing 
rose ? 

Not even an hour ! 

The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
The happiest lovers Arcady might boast 
Could not the entrance of this thouglit 

forbid : 
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
Nor rate too high what must so quickly 

fade. 

So soon be lost. 

Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
'•' To draw, out of the object of his eyes," 
The while on thee they eaze in simple 

truth, 
Hues more exalted, "a refined Form,'' 
That dreads not age, nor suffers from the 
worm. 

And never dies. 
1824. 



XII. 



THE FORSAKEN. 



The peace which others seek they find; 

The heaviest storms not longest last ; 

Heaven grants even to the guiltie.st mind 

An amnesty for what is past; 

When will my sentence be reversed? 

I only pray to know the worst ; 

And wish as if my heart would burst. 

O weary struggle ! silent years 
Tell seemingly no doubtful talc ; 
And yet tliey leave it sliort, and fears 
And hopes are strong and will prevail 
My calmest faith escapes not pain : 
And, feeling that the hope is vain, 



1 Ihink that he will come again. 



XIII 



'Tis said, that some have died for love : 
And here and there a church-yard grave is 

found 
In*the cold north's unhallowed ground, 
Because the wretched man himself had 

slain 
His love was such a grievous pain. 
xAnd there is one whom I five years have 

known ; 
He dwells alone 
Ujion Hclvcllyn's side : 
He loved — tlie pretty Barbara-died; 
And tluis he makes his moan : 
Three years had Barbara in her grave been 

laid 
When thus his moan he made : 

' Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind (ii.it 

oak ! 
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. 
That in some other way yon smoke 
May mount into the sky ! 
The clouds pass on ; they from the he.ivens 

depart : 
I look— the sky is empty space ; 
I know not what I trace ; 
But when 1 cease to look, my hand is on my 

heart. 

O ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye 

leaves. 
That murmur once so dear, when will it 

cease .? 
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, 
It robs my heart of peace. 



io6 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Thou Thrush, that singest loud— and loud 

and free, 
Into yon row of willows flit, 
Upon that alder sit ; 
Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 

Roll back, sweet Rill ! back to thy moun- 
tain-bounds, 

And there forever be thy waters chained ! 

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 

'J'hat cannot be sustained ; 

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough 

Ilea Hong yon waterfall must come, 

Oh let it then be dumb ! 

Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which 
thou art now. 

Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny 

showers, 
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, 
Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers. 
And stir not in the gale. 
For thus to see thee nodding in the air. 
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend. 
Thus rise and thus descend, — 
Disturbs me till the sight is more thjjn I 

can bear.'' 

The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
Ah gentle Love ' if ever thought was thine 
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me 

walk 
Within the soimd of Emma's voice, nor 

know 
Such happiness as 1 have known to-day. 
1 800, 



A COMPLAINT, 

There is a change— and I am poor : 
Your Love hath been, nor long ago, 
A fountain at my fond heart's duor, 
Whose only business was to How ; 
And flow it did : not taking heed 
Of its own bounty, or my need. 

What happy moments did I count ! 
Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
Now, for that consecrated fount 
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
What iiave 1 '? shall 1 dare to tell ? 
A comfortless and hidden well. 



k well of love — it naay be deep— 
1 trust it is, — and never dry : 
What matter .'' if the waters sleep 
In silence and obscurity. 
— Such change, and at the very door 
Of my fond heart, hath made me po<>r. 
1806. 



TO 



Let other bards of angels sing, 
IJnght suns without a spot ; 

But thou art no such perfect thing : 
Rejoice that thou art not ! 

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair' 

So, Mary, let it be 
If naught in loveliness compare 

With what thou art to me. 

True beauty dwells in deep r^reats, 

Wliose veil is unrempved 
Till heart with heart in concord beat^, 

And the lover is beloved. 
1824. 



XVI. 

Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 

To scorn the declaration, 
That sometimes I in thee have loved 

My fancy's own creation. 

Imagination needs must stir: 
bear Maid, this truth believe, 

Minds that have nothing to confts 
Find little to perceive. 

Be pleased that nature made thee fit 
To fed my heart's devotion, 

By laws to which all Forms submit 
In sky, air, earth, and ocean. 



How rich that forehead's calm expanse I 

How bright that heaven-directed glance! 

- Waft her to glory, winged Powers, 

Ere sorrow be renewed. 

And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood ! 

So looked Cecilia when she drew 

An Angel from his station ; 

So looked ; not ceasing to pursue 

Her tuneful adoration ! 



POEMS rOViYDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



107 



But hand and voice alike are still ; 
No sound here sweeps away the will 
Tliat save it birth : in service meek 
One ui)nj;l»t arm sustains the cheek, 
And one across tlie bosom lies — 
Tliat rose, and now forgets to rise, 
Subdued by breathless harmonies 
C)f meditative feehng ; 
Mule strains from worlds beyond tlie skies, 
Through the pure light of female eyes, 
Their sanctity revealing ! 
1S24. 



What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mii .■ 
Tlirough my very heart they shincj 
And, if my brow gives back their Tight, 
Do thou look gladly on the sight ; 
As the clear Moon with modest pride 

Beholds her own bright beams. 
Retiec'ed from the mountain's side 

And from the headlong streams. 



TO 



O DEARER far than light and life are dear, 
Full oft our human foresight 1 deplore ; 
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with 

fear 
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet 

no more 1 

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control. 
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
While all the future, for thy purer soul. 
With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear 
Tells that these words thy humbleness oi 

fend; 
Vet l)ear me up — else faltering in the rear 
Of a steep march : support me to the end. 

^ Peace settles where the intellect is meek. 
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
Through Thee communion with that Love 

I seek : 
The faith Heaven strengthens where he 
moulds the Creed. 
1^24. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
SCOTS. 

ON THE EVE OK A NEW YEAR. 
I. 

Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 

That silent greeting from above ; 

A gentle flash of light that came 

From her whom drooping captives love , 

Or art thou of still higher birth ? 

Thou that didst part the clouds of earthy 

My torDcr to reprove ! 

II. 
lirignt boon of pitying Heaven !— alas, 
1 may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
rondcring that Time to-night will pass 
The threshold of another year. 
For years to me are sad and dull ; 
M y very moments are too full 
Of hopelessness and fear. 

III. 
And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, 
'ihat struck perchance the fartliest . one 
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
To viiit me, and mc alone ; 
Me, unapprcached by any friend, 
Save those who to my sorrows lend 
Tears due unto their own. 

IV. 

To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
Through these wide realms a festive peal; 
To the new year a welcoming ; 
A tuneful offering for the weal 
Of happy millions lulled in sleep ; 
While I am forced to watch and weep, 
By wounds that may not heal. 

V. 

Horn all too high, by wedlock raised 
Still higher— to be cast thus low ! 
Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
On aught of more ambitious show 
I Than the sweet flowerets of the tields ! 
—It is my royal state that yields 
This bitterness of woe. 



Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth 
In the world's voice, was passing fair; 
And beauty, for confiding youth, 
Those shocks of passion cai. prepare 
That kill the bloom before its time ; 
Ana blanch, withi.iil the (wner's criiae, 
The most resplendent hair. 



io5 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



VII. 

Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
To bind a lini;ering life in chains . 
All that could quit my gras;i, or flee, 
Is gone ;— but not the subtle stains 
Fixed in the sj)irit; for even here 
Can I be proud that jealous fear 
Of what I was remains. 

VIII. 

A Woman rules rny prison's key 
A sister Queen, against the bent 
Of law and holiest sympathy, 
Detains me, doubtful of tlie event ; 
Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
My tlioughts are all that I possess, 
O keep them innocent ! 



Farewell desire of human aid. 
Which abject mortals vainly court : 
By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, 
C r fears the j^rey, of hopes the sj^ort ; 
Naught but the world-redeeming Cross 
Is able to supply my loss, 
My burthen to support. — 

X, 

Hark ! the death-note of the year 
Sounded by tlie castle-clock ! 
From her sunk eves a stagnant tear 
Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; 
But oft the woods renewed their green, 
Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
Reposed upon Uie block ! " 



XXI. 

THE COMPLAINT 

OF A rORSAKTJN INDIAN WOMAN. 

[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is 
unable to continue his joiuney with his 
companions, he is left behind, covered 
over with deer-skins, and is supi)]iL-d with 
water, food, and fuel, if the situation of 
tlie i)lace will afford it. He is informed 
of the track which his companions intend 
to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, 
or overtake them, he perishes alone in the 
desert; unless he should have the good 
fortune to fall in with some other tribes 
of Indians. The females are e(|ua]ly, or 
still more, exposed to the same late. See 
tliat very interesting work, " Ilearne's 



Journey from Hudson's Bay to the North- 
ern Ocean.'' Jn tlie high northern lati- 
tudes, as the same writer informs us, wlien 
the northern lights vary their position in 
the air, they make a rustling and a crack- 
ling noise, as alluded to in the following 
poem.] 

I. 

Before I see another day. 

Oh let my body die away ! 

In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 

The stars, they were among my dreams j 

In rustling conflict through tlie skies, 

I heard, I saw tiie flashes drive. 

And yet they are upon my eyes, 

And yet I am alive ; 

Before I see another day, 

Oh let my body die away ! 



My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 

Yet is it dead, and I remain : 

All stiff with ice the ashes lie; 

And they are dead, and 1 will die. 

When I was well, I wished to live,, 

For clotlies, for warmth, for food, and firej 

But they to me no joy can give. 

No })leasure now, and no desire. 

Then here contented will I lie ! 

Alone, I cannot fear to die. 

HI. 

Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 

Aiiotlier day, a single one ! 

Too soon I yielded to despair ; 

VViiy did ye listen to my jirayer ? 

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger 

And oh, how grievously I rue 

I'hat, afterwards, a little longer 

My friends, I did not follow you ! 

h'or strong and without pain 1 lay, 

L,)ear friends, wlien ye were gone away. 



My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
A woman who was not thy mother. 
When from my arms my Babe they took- 
On me how strangely did he look ! 
Through his wiiole body something ran, 
A most strange working did I see ; 
— As if he strove to be a man. 
That he might pull the sledge for me : 
And then he stretclied his arms, how wild I 
Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 



-^ 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



109 



My Jittlc joy ! my little pride ! 
In two days more I must have died. 
Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 
I feel I must have died with thee. 

wind, that o'er my head art flying 

'Jhc way my friends their course did bend, 

1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
Could I with thee a message send ; 
Too soon, my friends, >e went away ; 
For I had many things to say. 



I'll follow you across the snow; 

Yp travel heavily and slow; 

In spite of all my weary pain 

rii look upon your tents again. 

— :,Iy fire is dead, and snowy white 

The water wliich beside it stood : 

The wolf has come to me to-night, 

And he has stolen away my food. 

Forever left alone am I ; 

Then wherefore should 1 fear to die? 

VII. 

Young as I am, my course is run, 
I shall not see another sun ; 
I cannot lift my limbs to know 
If they have any life or no 
My poor forsaken Child, if I 
For once could have thee close to me, 
With happy heart I then would die, 
^nd my last thought would happy be ; 
Put thou, dear Babe, art far away, 
Nor shall 1 see another day. 
1798. 



XXII. 

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
I. 

In distant countries have I been, 
And yet 1 have not often seen 
A healthy man, a man full grown. 
Weep in the p«blic roads, alone. 
But such a one, on English ground, 
And in the broad highway, 1 met; 
Along the broad highway he came. 
His cheeks with tears were wet : 
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 

II. 

He saw me, and he turned aside, 
As if he wished himself to hide : 



And with his coat did then essay 

To wipe those briny tears away, 

I followed him, and said, " My friend, 

What ails you ? Wherefore weep you so ? ' 

— " Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 

He makes mv tears to flow. 

To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 

He is the last of all my flock. 



When I was young, a single man. 
And after youthful follies ran. 
Though little given to care and thought, 
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought ; 
And other sheep from her I raised, 
As healthy sheep as you might see ; 
And then I married, and was rich 
As I could wish to be ; 
Of sheep I numbered a full score, 
And every year increased my store. 

IV. 

Year after year my stock it grew ; 
And from this one, this single ewe, 
Full fifty comely sheep 1 raised. 
As fine a flock as ever grazed ! 
Upon the Ouantock hills they fed ; 
They throv'e, and we at home did thrive 
—This lusty Lamb of all my store 
Is all that IS alive ; 
And now I care not if we die, 
And perish all of poverty. 

V. 

Six Children, Sir ! had T to feed ; 
Hard labor In a time of need ! 
My pride was tamed, and in our grief 
I of the Parish asked relief. 
They said, I was a wealthy man ; 
My sheep upon the uplands fed. 
And it was fit that thence I took 
Whereof to buy us bread. ^ 

' Do this-, how can wc give to you. 
They cried, ' what to the poor is due i f 



1 sold a sheep, as they had said. 
And bought my little children bread. 
And they were healthy with their food: 
For me— it never did me good. 
A woeful time it was for me, 
To see the end of all my gains. 
The pretty flock which I had reared 
With all my care and pains, 
To see it melt like snow away— 
For me it was a woeful day. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON' THE AFFECTIONS. 



VII. 

Another still ! and still another ! 
A little lamb, and then its motlier ! 
It was a vein that never stopped — 
Like blood-drops from my heart they 

dropped. 
Till thirty were not left alive, 
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one ; 
And I may say, that many a time 
I wished they all were gone — 
Reckless of what might come at last 
Were but the bitter struggle past. 

VIII. 

To wicked deeds I was inclined. 

And wicked fancies crossed my mind, 

And every man 1 chanced to see, 

I thought he knew some ill of me ; 

No peace, no comfort could I find, 

No ease, within doors or without ; 

And, crazily and wearily 

I went my work about ; 

And oft was moved to flee from home. 

And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 

IX. 

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, 

As dear as my own children be ; 

For daily with my growing store 

I loved my children more and more. 

Alas ! it was an evil time ; 

God cursed me in my sore distress; 

I prayed, yet every day I thought 

I loved my children less ; 

And every week, and every day. 

My flock it seemed to melt away. 



They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see ! 
,From ten to five, from five to three, 
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; — 
And then at last from three to two; 
And, of my fifty, yesterday 
I !iad but only one : 
And here it lies upon my arm, 
Alas ! and 1 have none ; — 
To-day I fetched it from the rock ; 
It is the last of all my flock." 

1798. 

• ♦— -- 

XXIII. 

REPENTANCE. 

A PASTORAL BALLAD. 

TiiK fields which with covetous spirit we 

sold, 
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day. 



Would have brought us more good than «, 

burthen of gold, 
Could we but liave been as contented as 

they. 

When the troublesome Tempter beset 115, 

said I, 
" Let him come, with his purse proudly 

grasped in his hand ; 
But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll die 
Before he shall go with an inch of the land !" 

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their 

bowers ; 
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ; 
We could do what we liked with the land, it 

was ours ; 
And for us the brook murmured that ran by 

its side. 

But now we are strangers, go early or late; 
And often, like one overburthcncd with sin. 
With my hand on the latch of the half- 
opened gate, 
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 

When I walk by the hedge on a bright 

summer's day. 
Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, 
A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 
'' What ails you, that you must come creep* 

ing to me ! " 

With our pastures about us, we could not be 

sad; 
Our comiort was near if we ever were crest 
But the comfort, tlie blessings, and wealth 

that we had. 
We slighted them all, — and our birth-right 
was lost. 

Oh, Ill-judging sire of an innocent son 

Who must now be a wanderer ! but peace 

to tiiat strain ! 
Think of evening's repose when our labor 

was done. 
The Sabbath's return, and its leisure's soft 

chain ! » 

And in sickness, if night had been sparing 

of sleep. 
How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where 1 

stood, 
Looking down on the kine, and our treasure 

of sheep 
Th.\t besprinkled the field ; 'twas like youtli 

in my blood 1 



POEMS I-ViWDEJ) ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Ill 



Now 1 cleave to the house, and am dull as a 

snail ; 
And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a 

sigh, 
That follows the thought — We've no land in 

the vale, 
Save six feet of earth where our forefathers 

lie! 
1804. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MAR- 
GARET . 



Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me tlian dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone 1 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed. 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That J may rest ; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

II. 
Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child ; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
And been for evermore beguiled ; 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss I 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this? 



He was anion » the prime in worth. 
An object beauteous to behold ; 
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
If tilings ensued that wanted grace, 
As hath been said, they were not base ; 
And never blush was on my face. 



Ah ! little doth the young-one dream. 
When fuK of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 



Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
From that ill thought ; and, being blind. 
Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong, 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ev^r breathed : " and that is true ; 



I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 



My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
Oh ! do not dread thy motlier's door ; 
Think not of me with grief and pain : 
I now can sec with better eyes 
And worldly grandeur 1 despise. 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

VII. 

,\ las ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight I 
Chains tie us dowii»by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that IS left to comfort thee. 



Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den ; 
Or hast been summoned to the deep. 
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

IX. 

I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night, 
With love and longings infinite. 



My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass' 
1 question things and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 



Bei'ond participation lie 
My trouljles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh. 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
'I'hen come to me, my Son. or send 
Some tidings, that my woes may end 7 
I have no other earthly friend 1 
1804. 



IT2 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTfOXS 



XXV. 

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 

BV MY SISTER. 

The days are cold, the nights are long, 
Tlie north-wind sings a doleful song ; 
Then hush again upon my breast; 
All merry things are now at rest, 
Save thee, my pretty Love ! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
There's nothing stirring in the house 
Save one wee, lumgry, nibbling mouse, 
Then why so busy thou ? 

Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
'Tis but the moon that siiincs so bright 
On the window pane bedropped with rain : 
Then, little Darling ! sleep again, 
And wake when it is day. 
1805. 



MATERNAL GRIEF. 

Departed Child ! I could forget thee once 
Though at my bosom nursed ; this woeful 

gain 
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
Is present and perpetually abides 
A shadow, never, never to be displaced 
By the returning substance, seen or touched, 
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my em- 
brace. 
Absence and death how differ they ! and 

how 
Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
What one short sigh so easily removed ? — 
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought 
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
O teach me calm submission to thy Will I 

The Child she mourned had overstepped 

the pale 
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
Reflected beams of that celestial light 
To all the Litde-oncs on sinful eartli 
Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed and 

cheered 
Those several qualities of heart and mind 
Which, in her own 1 1 st nature, rooted 

deep, 
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, 



And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self, 
And foi- its promises to future years. 
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed 

Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
To a continuance of their fearless sport. 
Two separate Creatures :n their several gifts 
Abountling, but so fasliioned that, in all 
That Nature prompts them to display, their 

locks. 
Their starts of motion and their fits of rest, 
An undistinguishable style appears 
And character of gladness, as if Spring 
Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the 

spirit 
Of the rejoicing morning weu their own? 

Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained 
And her twm lii other, had the parent seen 
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 
Death in a moment parted them, and left 
Tiie Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse 
Than desolate ; for oft-times from the sound 
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear cliild. 
He knew it not) and from his happiest looks 
Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, si' unned 

with fear 
Her sad approach, and stole away to rind. 
In his known haunts of joy where'er he 
might, 

A more congenial object. Rut, as time 
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 
To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes 
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe 
Turned upon her who bore him, she would 

stoop 
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to 

spread 
Faint color over both their pallid cheeks. 
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they 

were calrned 
And cheered ; and now together breathe 

fresh air 
In open fields ; and when the glare of day 
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
Befriends the observance, readily they join 
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's 

grave, 



POEM": FOUNDED OxV THE APFECTTONS. 



"3 



Which he with flowers hath planted, finding 
there 
I Amusement, where the Mother does not 
miss 
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn 

rite 
Of pious faith the vanities of grief ; 
' For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits 
Transferred to regions upon which the 

clouds 
Of our weak nature rest not, must be 
deemed 
j Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, 
I And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
Which, soothed \\\\<\ sweetened by the grace 
of Heaven 
I As now it is, sc^cni:- to her own fond heart, 
I Immortal as the love that gave it being. 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 

One morning (raw it was and wet — 

A foggy day in winter time) 

A Woman on the road 1 met, 

Not old, thougii sometiiing past /ler 

])rime : 
Majestic in her person, tall and '-'.laight ; 
And like a Roman matron's was iier mien 
and gait. 

The ancient spirit is not dead ; 

Old times, thougiit l,arc breathing there; 

Proud was ! tliat my country bred 

Such strength, a dignity st) fair : 

She begged an alms, like one in jioor es 

tate; 
I looked at her again, nor did my icicle 

abate. 

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
" What is it," said 1, "that you bear. 
Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
Protected from this colJ damp air ?" 
She answered, soon as she tiie question 
heard, 
*A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing- 
bird. 

And, thus continuing, she said, 
" I had a Son, who many a day 
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead : 
Jn Denmark he was cast away r 
And I have travelled weary miles to see 
If auvht which he had owned might still re- 
main for me. 



The bird and cage they both were his : 
'Twas my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 
He kept it . many voyages 
The singing-bird had gone with him ; 
When last he sailed, he left the bird be- 

hind, 
From bodings, as might be, that hung up(..i 

his mind. 

He to a fellow-lodger's care 
Had left it, to be watched and fed. 
And pipe its song in safety ; — tlnrre 
1 found it wiien my ^on was dead ; 
And now, God hcli) me for my little wit 1 
I bear it with me, Sir;— lie took so much 
delig> . in it." 
iSoo. 



XXVIII. 

■* HE CHILDLESS FATHER. 

" \J .', Timothy, up with your staff and 

away ! 
".ot a soul in thit vill.-ge this morning will 

stay ; 
The hare has just started from Hamilton's 

grounds, 
And Skiddaw is glad witli the cry of the 

hounds.'' 

— Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and 

green. 
On the slopes of thepastui.-s all colors were 

seen , 
With their comely blue aprons, and caps 

white as snow, 
The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six 

months before, 
Filled the funeral basin * at Timothy's 

door ; 
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had 

past ; 
One Chilal did it bear, and that Child was 

his last. 

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the 

fray, 
'I he horse and the horn, and the hark ! hark 

away ! 



* In several parts of ihc Nvntii of Ei.;;i.inti, 
when a funeral takes place, a basin full of s]irii;s 
if box-wood is placed at tiie door of the house 
fioiu whicli the coffin is taken up, and each 
I c- ISO 11 wlio attends tlic funeral ordinarily taki's 
a sori;:; of this box-wood, and ilnows it iiito the 
;;iavc of tlie deceased. 



tu 



poem:^ pounded on 771 e appkc rioN^. 



Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said ; 
'• Tlie key 1 must take, for my Ellen is 

dead." 
But of this in my ears not a word did he 

speak ; 
And he went to' the chase with a tear on his 

cheek. 
i8oo. 



XXIX. 

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned 

In which a Lady driven from I<>ance did 

dwell ; 
The biti and lesser griefs with wliich she 

mourned, 
In friendship she to me would often tell. 

This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, 
Where she was childless, daily would repair 
To a poor neighboring cottage ; as I found. 
For sake of a young Child whose home was 
there. 

Once having seen her clasp with fond em- 
brace 

This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 

Endeavoring, in our English tongue, to 
trace 

Such things as she unto the Babe might 
say : 

And thus, from what I heard and knew, or 
guessed, 

My song the workings of her heart ex- 
pressed. 



" Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 

One moment let me be thy mother ! 

An infant's face and looks are thine, 

And sure a mother's heart is mine : 

Thy own dear mother's far away» 

Al labor in tlie harvest field : 

Thy little sister is at play ; — 

What warmth, what comfort would it 

yield 
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be 
Dne little hour a child to me ! 

II. 

Across the waters I am come, 
And 1 have left a babe at homo: 



A long, long way of land and sea ! 
Come to me — I'm no enemy : 
1 am the same who at thy side 
Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
For thee, sweet Baby !— thou hast tried, 
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast ; 
Good, good art tiiou ; — alas 1 to me 
Far more than I can be to thee. 



Here, little Darling, dost thou lie ; 

An infant thou, a mother I I 

Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears ; 

Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. 

Alas ! before I left the spot, 

My baby, and its dwelling-place, 

'J1ie nurse said to me, ' Tears should nrtt 

Be shed upon an infant's face, 

It v.'as unlucky '- — no, no, no ; 

No truth is in them who say so ! 



My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 
' Lie pines,' they'll say, ' it is his doom 
And you may sec his hour is come.' 
C>h ! had he but thy cheerful smiles, 
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles. 
And counti'iiance like a summer's day, 
They would have hopes of him ; — and 

then 
I should behold his face atrain ! 



'Tis gone — like dreams that we forget • 

There was a smile or two — yet — yet 

I can remember them, I see 

The smiles worth all the world to me. 

Dear Baby! I must lay thee down ; 

Tiiou troublest me with strange alarms ; 

Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own ; 

I cannot keep thee in my arms ; 

For they confound me; — where — where is 

That last, that sweetest smile of his ? 

VI. 

Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
Together here tliis one half day. 
My sister's child, who bears my name, 
l'"rom France to slieltering England 

came ; 
She witii her mother crossed the sea ; 
The babe and mother near me dwell : 
Yet does my yearning heart to thee 
Turn rather, though I love her well : 
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here' 
Never was any child more dear I 



POEMS FOUNDED OM TFfE AFFECTIONS. 



»iS 



—I cannot help il ; ill intent 
I've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
I weep — 1 know they do thee wrong, 
These tears — and my poor idle tongue. 
Oh, what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
How cold it is ! but thou art good ; 
Tlune eyes are on me — tiiey would speak, 
1 think, to help me if they could. 
Blessings upon that soft, warm lace, 
My heart again is in its place ! 



While thou art mine, my little Love, 
This cannot be a sorrowfid grove , 
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, 
I seem to find them all in thee . 
Here's grass to play with, here are 

flowers , 
I'll call thee by my darling's name ; 
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours. 
Thy features seem to me the same j 
His little sister tliou shall be ; 
And, when once more my home 1 see, 
I'll tell him many tales of Thee.*' 
i8o2. 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 

The following tale was written as an Episode, 
in a woik from which its length may jier- 
haps exclude it. The facts are true ; no ni- 
vention as to these has been exercised, as 
none was needed. 

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thus 
My story may begin) O balmy time, 
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow 
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ' 
To such inheritance of blessed fancy 
(Fancy that sports more desperately with 

minds 
That ever fortune hath been known to do) 
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by 

years 
Whose progress had a little overstepped 
His stripling prime. A town of small 

repute, 
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, 
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he 

wooed a Maid 
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
With answering vows. Plebeian was the 

Stock, 



Plebeian, thoiigh ingenuous, the stock. 
From which her graces and her honours 

sprung : 
And hence the father of the enamoi.rea 

Youth, 
With haughty indignation, spurned the 

thought 
Of such alliance. — From their cradles np. 
With but a step between their several 

homes, 
Twins had they been in pleasure ; after strife 
And petty c)uarrels, had grown fond again; 
Each other's advocate, eacii other's stav; 
And, in their happiest moments, not con- 
tent 
If more divided than a sportive pair 
Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are 

hovering 
Within the eddy of a common blast, 
Or hidden only by the concave depth 
Of neighbouring billows from each other's 

sight. 

Thus, not without concurrence of an age 
Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
By ready nature for a life of love, 
For endless constancy, and placid truth 
But vvluitsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
Of their maturer years, hi-^ present mind 
Was under fascination ; — he beheld 
A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
Arabian fiction never filled the world 
With half the wonders that were wrought 

for him. 
Earth breathed in one great presence of the 

spring; 
Life turned the meanest of her implements 
Before his eyes, to price above all gold ; 
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ; 
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
The portals of the dawn ; all jjaradise 
Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
I^et itself in upon him : — pathways, walks, 
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit 

sank, 
.Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world 
To its dull round of ordinary cares ; 
A man too happy for mortality I 

So passed the time, till whether througn 

effect 
Of some unguarded moment that dissolved 
Virtuous restraint— ail, speak it, think it, 

notl 



ii6 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Dacm rather that the fervent Youth, who 

saw 
So many bars between his present state 
And the dear haven where he wished to be 
In lionorable wedlock with his Love, 
Was in liis jud2;nient tempted to dcchne 
To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause 
'Jo nature for a happy end of all ; 
Peem that by such fond hope the Youth 

was swayed, 
And bear with their transgression, when 1 

add 
That Julia, wanting; yet the name of wife, 
Carried about her for a secret grief 
The promise of a mother. 

To conceal 
The threatened shame, the parents of the 

Maid 
Found means to hurry her away by ni^lit, 
And unforewarncd, that in some distant 

spot 
She nnj^ht remain shrouded in privacy, 
Until the babe was born. When morning 

came. 
The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, 
And all uncertam whither he should turn, 
Chafed like a wild beast in the toils ; but 

soon 
Discovering traces of the fugitives, 
Their steps he followed to the Maid's re- 
treat. 
Easily may the sequel be divined — 
Walks to and fro — watch ings at every hour ; 
And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she 

may. 
Is busy at her casement as the swallow 
Fluttering its jiinions, almost within reach, 
About the pendent nest, did thus espy 
Her Lover !— thence a stolen interview. 
Accomplished under friendly shade of night. 

I pass the raptures of the pair ; — such 

theme 
Is, by innumeiable poets, touched 
In more delightful verse than skill of mine 
Could fashion ; chiefly by that darling bard 
Wiio told of Julietandher Romeo, 
And of the lark's note htard before its time. 
And of the streaks that laced the severing 

clouds 
In the unrelenting east.— Through all her 

courts 
The vacant city slept ; the busy winds, 
'J'hat keep no certain intervals of rest. 
Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed 
Her tires, ..hat like mysterious pulses beat 
Aloft; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! 



To their full hearts the universe seemed 

hung 
On that brief meeting's slender filament .' 

They parted ; and the generous Vaudra- 
cour 
Reached speedily the native threshold, bent 
On making (so the Lovers had agreed) 
A sacrifice of birthright to attain 
A linal portion from his father's hand ; 
Which granted. Bride and Bridegroom then 

would Hee 
To some remote and solitary place. 
Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, 
Where they may live, with no one to be- 
hold 
Their happinevs, or to disturb their love. 
But ncnv of this no whisper ; not the less. 
If ever an obtrusive word were dropped 
'touching the matter of his passion, still, 
In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracou'- 
Persisted openly that death alone 
Should abrogate his human privilege 
Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, 
Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. 

" You shall be baflied in your mad intents 
If there be justice in the court of France," 
Muttered the Father. — From these wt)rds 

the Youth 
Conceived a terror ; and, by night or day, 
Stirred nowhere without weapons, that lull 

soon 
Found dreadful provocation ; for at night 
When to his chamber he retired, attempt 
Was made to seize him by three armed men, 
Acting, in furtherance of the fatlier's will, 
Under a private signet of the State. 
One the rash Youtli's ungovernable hand 
Slew, and as quickly to a second gave 
A perilous wound—he shuddered to behold 
The breathless corse ; then j^'acehilly re- 
signed 
His person to the law, was lodged in prison, 
And wore the fetters of a criminal. 

Have you observed a tufi of winged seed 
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, 
Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use 
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, 
Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro 
Through the wide clement.'' or have you 

marked 
The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough. 
Within the vo'-ti.x of a foaming flood. 
Tormented .'' by sucli aid you may conceive 
The perturbation tiiat ensued . — ah, no I 



POEMS FOU^fDED ON THE AFFECTTONS. 



11^ 



Despcate the Mail — tlie Youth is stained 

with blood ; 
Uiimatchablc on earth is tlieir disquiet! 
■^'et. as the troubled seed and tortured bough 
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. 

For him, by private influence with the 

'/ Court, 

fVas pardon gained, and liberty procured; 

Fiiit not without exaction of a pledge. 

Which liberty and love dispersed in air. 

He flew to her from whom they would di- 
vide him — 

He clove to her who could not give him 
peace — 

Vea, his first word of greeting was, — " All 
right 

Is gone from me ; my latcly-towcring hoj^es. 

To the least fibre of tlieir jowest root. 

Are witiiered ; thou no longer canst he 
mine, 

I thine — the conscience-stricken nuist not 
woo 

The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face. 

Behold thee, and my misery is complete ! " 

" One, are we not ? " exclaimed the Maiden 

— ■' One, 
Ror innocence and youth, for weal and 

woe ? " 
Then with the father's name she coupled 

words 
Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth 
Checked her with filial meekness; for no 

thought 
Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense 
Of hasty anger, rising in the eclipse 
Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 
Find place within his bosom,— Once again 
The persevering wedge of tyranny 
Achieved their separation : and once more 
Were they united, — to be yet again 
Disparted, pitiable lot ! But here 
A portion of the tale may well be left 
In silence, though my memory could add 
Much how the Youth, in scanty space of 

time, 
Was traversed from without ; much, too, of 

thoughts 
That occupied his days in solitude 
Under privation and restraint ; and what, 
Through dark and shapeless fear of things 

to come. 
And what, through strong compunction for 

the past, 
He suffered — breaking down in heart and 

mind I 



Doomed to a third and last caj tivity, 
His freedonj he recovered on the eve 
Of Julia's travail. When the bale w,ia 

born, 
Its presence tempted him tochwishschi^mes 
Of future happiness. " You shall return, 
Julia," said he. " and to your fatlier's hciuse 
(u)witli the ciuld. — Vou have been wrcith- 

ed; yet 
The silver shower, whose reckless burthen 

weighs 
Too heavily upon th • lily's head, 
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 
Malice, beholding you, will melt away, 
tio ! -'tis a town where both of us were 

Ixirn ; 
None will reproach j-ou, for our truth is 

known ; | l.it • 

And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our 
Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
With ornaments —the prettiest, nature yields 
Or art can fasliion, shall you deck our boy. 
And feed his countenance wit'i your own 

sweet looks 
Till no one can resist him — Now, even 

now, 
I see Iiim sporting on the sunny la.vn ; 
My father from the window sees him too ; 
Startled, as if some new-created thing 
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
Bounded before him ; — but the unwceting 

Child 
Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's 

heart 
So that it shall be softened, and our loves 
End happily, as they began ! " 

These gleams 
.-\ppeared but seldom ; oftener was he seen 
Propping a pale and melancholy face 
Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus 
His head upon one breast, while from the 

other 
The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 
— That pillow is no longer to be thine, 
Fond Youth 1 that mournful solace now 

must jiass 
Into the list of things that cannot be * 
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears 
The sentence, by her mother's lips pro 

nounced. 
That dooms her to a convent. — Who shali 

tell, . 
Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 
Of her affections? so they blindly asked 
Who knew not to what quiet depths a 

weight 



ii8 



POEMS FOUNDED O.V THE AFFECTIONS. 



Of agony liad pressed the Sufferer down : 
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear 
Composed and silent, without visible sign 
Of even the least emotion. Noting this, 

When the impatient object of his love 
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned 
No answer, only took the mother's hand 
And kissed it ; seemingly devoid of pain. 
Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed 
Was a dependent on the obdurate heart 
Of one who came to disunite their lives 
Forever- sad alternative ! preferred. 
By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. 
—So te it ! 

In the city he remained 
A season after Julia had withdrawn 
To those religious walls. He, too, de- 
parts — 
Who with him ? — even the senseless Little- 
one. 
With that sole charge he passed the city- 
gates, 
For the last time, attendant by the side 
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, 
In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, 
That rose a brief league distant from uio 

town. 
The dwellers in that house where he had 

lodged 
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love 
Impelled ; — they parted from him there, and 

stood 
Watching below till he had disappeared 
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took. 
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle 
(Slow-movir.g ark of all his hopes!) that 

•eiled 
Th. tender infant : and at every inn, 
An^ under every hospitable tree 
At which the bearers halted or reposed, 
Faid him with timid care upon his knees. 
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known 

to look, 
Upon the nursling which his arms em- 
braced. 

This was the manner in which Vaudra- 

cour 
Departed with his infant ; and thus reached 
His father's house, where to the innocent 

child 
Admittance was denied. The young man 

spake 
No word of indignation or reproof, 



Rut of his father begged, a last request, 
That a retreat might be assigned to him 
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, 
With such allowance as his wants required ; 
l'"or wishes he had none. To a lodge that 

stood 
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the 

age 
Of four-and-twenty summers he virithdrew; 
And thither took with him his motherless 

Babe, 
And one domestic for their common needs, 
An aged woman. It consoled him here 
'I'o attend upon the orphan, and perform 
Obsequious service to the precious child. 
Which, after a short time, by some mistake 
Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — 
The Tale I follow to its last recess 
Of suffering or of peace, 1 know not which : 
Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, 

not mine ! 

From this time forth he never shared a 

smile 
With mortal creature. An Inhabitant 
Of that same town, in which the pair had 

left 
So lively a remembrance of their griefs. 
By chance of business, coming within re^ch 
Of his retirement, to the fo.'-est lodge 
Repaired, but only found the matron there, 
Who told him that his pains were thrown 

away, 
For that her Master never uttered word 
j To living thing— not even to her. — Behold ! 
While they were speaking, Vaudracour ap- 
I proached ; 

i But, seeing some one near, as on the latch 
Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he 

shrunk — 
And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the 

place 
The visitor retired. 

Thus lived the Youth 
Cut off from all intelligence with man, 
I And shunning even the light of common 
I day ; 

Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 

through France 
Full speedily resounded, public hope, 
Or personal memory of his own deep 

wrongs, 
Rouse him : but in those solitary shades 
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind I 
1805. 



l! 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



119 



THE IDIOT BOY. 

'Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March niglit, 
The moon is up, — the sky is blue, 
The owlet, in the moonlight air, 
Shouts from nobody knows where; 
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 

— Why bustle thus about your door, 
What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
Why are you in this mighty tret ? 
And why on horseback have you set 
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? 

Scarcely a soul is out oi bed ; 
Good Betty, put him down again ; 
His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
But, Betty ! wliat has he to do 
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 

But Betty's bent on her intent ; 
For her good neighbor, Susan Gale, 
Old Susan, she vvho dwells alone. 
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 
As if her very life would fail. 

There's not a house within a mile, 
No hand to help them in distress ; 
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
And sorely puzzled are the twain, ' 
For what she ails they cannot guess. 

And Betty's husband's at the wood. 
Where by the week he doth abide, 
A woodman in the distant vale ; 
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 
What must be done ? what will betide ? 

And Betty from the lane has fetched 
Her Pony, that it. mild and good ; 
Whether hr be in joy or pain, 
Feeding at will along the lane, 
Or bringing faggots from the wood. 

And he is all in travelling trim, — 
And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
Has on the well-girt saddle set, 
(The like was never heard of yet) 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And he must post without delay 
Across the bridge and through the dale. 
And by the church, and o'er the down. 
To bring a Doctor from tlie town, 
Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 

There is no need of boot or spur, 
There is no need of whi]> cir wand ; 
For Johnny has his holly bough, 



And with a hurly-burly now 

He shakes the green bough in his hand. 

And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
The Boy, who is her best delight, 
Both what to follow, what to shun, 
What to do, and what to leave undone, 
How turn to left, and how to right. 

And Betty's most especial charge. 
Was, " Johnny I Johnny ! mind that yoa 
Come home again, nor stop at all,— 
Come home a^am, wiiate'er befal, 
My Johnny, do, I pray jou do." 

To this did Johnny answer make, 
Both with his head and with his liand, 
And proudly shook the bridle loo , 
And then ' his words were not a few, 
Which Betty well could understand. 

And now that Johnny is just going, 
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, 
She gently pats the Pony's side, 
On which her Idiot Boy must ride. 
And seems no longer in a hurry 

But when the Pony moved his legs, 
Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
For joy his head and heels are idle, 
He's idle all for very joy. 

And while the Pony moves his legs, 
In Johnny's left hand you may see 
The green bough motionless and dead • 
The Moon that shines above his head 
Is not more still and mute than lie 

His heart it was so lull ol glee, 
1 hat till full fifty yards were gone, 
He quite forgot»his holly whip. 
And all his skill in horsemanship : 
Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 
And while the Mother, at the door 
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erfiows, 
Proud of herself, and proud of liim, 
She sees him in his travelling trim, 
How quietly her Johnny goes. 
The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
He's at the guide-post — he turns right , 
She watches till he's out of sight, 
And Betty will not then depart. 
Burr, burr— now Johnny's lips they bun 
As loud as any mill, or near it : 
Meek as a Iamb the Pony moves, 
And Johnny makes the noise he lovt>6, 
And Betty listens, glad to liear t. 



120 



^OE^TS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Awav she hies to Susan Gale : 
Her M-Ssenger's in merry tune; 
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
As on he goes beneath the moon. 

His steed and he right well agree; 
For of this Pony there's a rumor, 
That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
And should he live a thousand years, 
He never will be out of humor. 

But then he is a horse that thiriks ! 
And when he thinks, his pace is slack ; 
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
What he has got upon his back. 

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
And far into the moonlight dale, 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town. 
To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And Betty, now at Susan's side. 
Is in the middle ot her story. 
What speedy help her Boy will bring, 
With many a most diverting thing. 
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 

And Betty, still at Susan's side. 
By this time is not quite so flurried 
Demure with porringer and plate 
Siie sits, as if in Susan's fate 
Her life and soul were buried. 

But Betty, poor good Woman ! she. 
You plainly in her face may read it. 
Could lend out of that moment's store 
Five years of happiness or mor 
To any that might need it. 

But yet I guess that now and then 
With Betty all was not so well ; 
And to the road she turns her ears. 
And thence full many a sound she hears, 
Wiiich she to Susan will not tell. 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans , 
" As sure as there's a moon in heaven," 
Cries Betty, *• he'll be back again ; 
They'll both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
Both will be here before eleven." 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
'Tis on the stroke — " He must be near," 
Quoth Betty, " and will soon be iiere, 
And sure as tliere's a moon in heaven." 



The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 

And Johnny is not yet in sight : 

— The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, 

But Betty is not quite at ease ; 

And Susan has a dreadful night. 

And Betty, half an hour ago. 
On Johnny vile reflections cast : 
" A little idle sauntering Thing ! " 
With other names, an endless string; 
But now that time is gone anJ past. 

And Betty's drooping at the heart. 
That happy time all past and gone, 
" How can it be he is so late ? 
The Doctor, he has made him wait ; 
Susan ! they'll both be here anon." 

And Susan's growing worse and worse, 
And Betty's in a sad quandary , 
And then there's nobody to say 
If she must go, or she must stay ! 
— She's in a sad quandary. 

The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
Appears along the moonlight road ; 
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
And Betty still at Susan's side. 

And Susan now begins to fear 

Of sad mischances not a few, 

That Johnny may perhaps be drowned ; 

Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 

Which they must both forever rue. 

She prefaced half a hint of this 
With, " God forbid it should be true! " 
At the first word that Susan said 
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
" Susan, I'd gladly stay with you 

I must be gone, I must away : 
Consider, johnny's but half-wise ; 
Susan, we must take care of him. 
If he is hurt in life or limb " — 
*' Oh God forbid ! " poor Susan cries. 

" What can I do ? " says Betty, going, 
" What can I do to ease your pain ? 
(iood Susan, tell me, and I'll stay; 
I fear you're in a dreadful way. 
But I shall soon be back again." 

" Nay, Betty; go ! good I>etty, go \ 
There's nothing that can ease my pain,'* 
Then off slie hies ; but with a prayer 
That ( "lod poor Susan's life would spar^ 
Till sl>c comes back agaiUj 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTrONS. 



121 



So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
And far into the moonlight dale ; 
And how she ran, and how siie walked, 
And all that to herself she talked, 
Would surely be a tedious talc. 

In high and low, above, below, 
In great and small, in round and square, 
In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 
In bush and brake, in black and green ; 
' Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. 

And while she crossed the bridge, there 

came 
A thought with which her heart is sore — 
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 
To hunt the moon within the brook, 
And never will be heard of more. 

Now is she high upon the down, 
Alone amid a prospect wide ; 
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
Among the fern or in the gorse ; 
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 

" Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, 
Where he will stay till he is dead ; 
Or, sadly he has been misled. 
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 

Or him that wicked Pony's carried 
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall, 
Or in the castle he's pursuing 
Among the ghosts his own undoing ; 
Or playing with the waterfall." 

At poor old Susan then she railed, 
While to the town she posts away; 
" If Susan had not been so ill, 
Alas! I should have had him still, 
My Johnny, till my dying day." 

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, 
The Doctor's self could hardly spare •. 
Unworthy things she talked, and wild ; 
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 
The Pony had his share. 

But now she's fairly in the town, 
And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
'Tis silence all on every side ; 
The town so long, the town so wide, 
is silent as the skies. 

And now she's at the Doctor's door, 
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; 
The Doctor at the casement shows 
' His glimmering eyes that peep and dose ; 
And one hand rubs his old ni^ht-cap. 



" Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where's \wj 

Johnny ? " 
" I'm here, what is't you want with me.''" 
" Oh Sir ! you know I'm Hetty Foy, 
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
You know him — him you often see 

He's not so wise as some folks be : " 
" The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
" What, Woman 1 should I know of him t * 
And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 

'* O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
Here will I die ; here will I die ; 
I thought to find my lost one here, 
But he is neither far nur near, 
Oh ! what a wretched Mother 1 ! ' 

She stops, shf^ stands, she looks about ; 
Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
Poor Betty ! it would ease her jiain 
If she had heart to knock again ; 
— The clock strikes three — a dismal knell 1 

Then up along the town she hies, 

No wonder if her senses fail ; 

This piteous news so much it shocked her 

She quite forgot to send the Doctor 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And now she's high upon the down, 
And she can see a mile of road : 
" O cruel ! I'm almost threescore ; 
Such night as this was ne'er before, 
There's not a single soul abroad." 

She listens, but she cannot hear 
The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
The grass you almost hear it growing. 
You hear it now, if e'er you can. 

The owlets through the long blue night 
And shouting to each other still : 
Fond lovers \ yet not quite hob nob 
They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 
That echoes far from hill to hill. 

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
A green-grown pond she just has ]\ist. 
And from the brink she hurries fast, 
Lest she should drown herself therein 

And now she sit her down and weeps; 
Such tears she never shed brfore ; 
" Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 
And we will ne'er o'erload thee more," 



122 



POEMS POUA^DED ON TFTE AFPECTIONS 



A thought is come into lier liead " 
The Pony he is mild and good, 
And we have always used him well ■, 
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 
And carried Johnny to the wood. 

Then up she springs as if on wings ; 
She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 
If Betty fifty ponds should see, 
The last of all her thoughts would be 
To drown herself therein. 

Reader ! now that I might tell 
What Johnny and liis Horse are doing ! 
What they've been doing all this time, 
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 

A most delightful tale pursuing ! 

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
He with his Pony now dotli roam- 
The cliffs and peaks so liigh that arc, 
To lay his liands upon a star, 
And in his pocket bring it home. 

Perhaps he's turned himself about, 
His face unto his horse's tail. 
And, still and mute, in wonder lost. 
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 
He travels slowly down the vale. 

And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
A fierce and dreadful hunter he.; 
Yon valley, now so trim and green. 
In five months' time, should lie be seen 
A desert wilderness will be ! 

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire. 
And like the very soul of evil, 
He's galloping away, away, 
And so will gallop on for aj'e, 
The bane of all that dread the devil ! 

1 to the Muses have been bound 
Tliese fourteen years, by strong indentures 
O gentle Muses ! let me tell 

But lialf of what to him befel ; 

He surely met with strange adventures. 

O gentle Muses ! is this kind? 
Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
A. id can ye thus unfriended leave me ; 
Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ! 

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall. 
Which thunders down with headlong force. 
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair^ 
As careless as if nothing were. 
Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 



Unto his horse — there feeding free, 
He seems, I tliink, the rein to give ; 
Of moon or stars he takes no heed ; 
Of such we in romances read : 
— 'Tis Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 

And that's the very Pony, too ! 
Where is she, where is Betty Foy ? 
She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
The roaring waterfall she hears, 
And cannot find lier Idiot Boy. 

Your Tony's worth his weight in gold j 
Then cahn your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
She"s coming from among the trees, 
And now all full in view she sees 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

A id Betty sees the Pony too : 

Wliy stand you thus, good Betty Foy? 

It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 

'Tis iie whom you so long have lost. 

He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 

She looks again — her arms are up — 
She screams — she cannot move for joy 
She darts, as with a torrent's force, 
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 

And Jiihnny burrs, and laughs aloud* 
Whether in cunning or in joy 
I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
To hear again her Idiot Boy. 

And now she's at the Pony's tail. 
And now is at the Pony's liead, — 
On that side now, and now on this ; 
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 

She kisses o'er and o'er again 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; 
She's happy here, is h.nppy there. 
She IS uneasy everywhere ; 
Her limbs are all alive with joy. 

She pats the Pony, wliere or when 
She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
The little Pony glad may be, 
But he is milder far than she, 
You hardly can perceive his joy. 

" Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor 
You've done your best, and that is all : 
Slie took the reins, when this was said^ 
And gently turned the Pony's head 
Frpm the loud waterfall. 



POEMS I'OUXDF.n OX THE AFJ'ECTIONS. 



123 



Bv this the stars were ahnost gone, 
'JI1C moon was setting on the hill, 
ii^o pale you scarcely looked al lier : 
The little birds began to stir, 
Though yet their tongues were still. 

The Pony, Betty, and her Hoy, 
vVind slowly through the woody daie ; 
And who is she, betimes abroad, 
'J'hat hobbles up the stccj:! rough road ? 
Wlio is it, but old Susan Gale? 

Long time lay Susan lost in thought 
And many dreadful fears beset her, 
15oth for her Messenger and Nurse : 
And, as her mmd grew worse and worse, 
11 cr body — it grew better. 

She turned, she tossed herself in bed. 
On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
Point after point chd she discuss; 
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
Her body still grew better. 

" Alas ! what is become of Ihem ? 

These fears can never be endured ; 

ril to the wood.''— 'J'he word scaice said, 

Did Susan rise up from her bed, 

As if by magic cured. 

Away she goes up' hill and down, 

And to the wood at length is come ; 

She spie.. her Friends, she shouts a greeting ; 

Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 

As ever was in Christendom. 

Tlic owls have hardly sung their last. 
While our four travellers homeward wend , 
The owls have hooted all night long. 
And with the owls began my song. 
And with the owls must end. 

For while they all were travelling home, 
Cried Betty, " Tell us. Johnny, do, 
Where all this long night you liave been. 
What you have heard, what you have seen : 
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 

Now Johnny all night long had heard 
The owls in tuneful concert strive ; 
No doubt too he the moon had seen ; 
For in the moonlight he had been 
From eight o'clock till five. 

And thus, to Betty's question, he 
Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
(His very words 1 give to you,) 
*• The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-\vhoo, 



And the sun did shine so coUl !" 
— Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
And tliat was all his travel's story. 
179S. 



XXXII. 

MICHAEL. 

A PASTORAL rOEM. 

If from the public way you turn your step 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Gbyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold as- 
cent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to 

face. 
But, courage! for around that boisterous 

brook 
The mountains have all opened out them 

selves, 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen ; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones., 

and kites 
That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
Nor should 1 have made mention of this 

Dell 
But for one object which you might pass 

by, 

Might see and notice not. Beside the 

brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story— uncnriched with strange events, 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
Or for the summer shade. It was the fiist 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, mtn 
Whom I already loved: — not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and 

hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Talc, while I was yet a Boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led mc on to feel 
For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed 1 
On man, the h'^art of man, and human life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and srude, I ill relate the same 



124 



FOE IMS I'OUA'DRD O.V THE AEFECTrONS 



For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, witli yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Ot jouthful Poets, who among tliese hills 
Will be my second self when 1 am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 

limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
And in liis shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds. 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, he heard the 

South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought hiiy, and he to himself would 

say, 
" The winds are now devising work for 

me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that 

drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
That came to him, and left him, on the 

heights. 
So lived lie till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should sup- 
pose 
That tlie green valleys, and the streams and 

rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fielcis, where with cheerful spirits he had 

breathed 
The conimon air ; hills, which with vigorous 

step 
He had so often climbed ; which had im- 
pressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. 
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
The certainty of honorable gain ; 
Those fields, those hills — what could they 

less ? — had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 



A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
The pleasure which there is in life itself, 
liis days had not been passed in single 

ness. 
His Helpmate v/as a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty 

years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was in her house ; two wheels 

she had 
or antique form ; this large, for spinning 

wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if cnc wheel had 

rest 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who liad been born to them 
When Michael, t-iling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old,— in shepherd's 

phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
Whit two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 

storm. 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When they was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even 

then. 
Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, i'.nd 

there. 
Each witli a mess of pottage and skimmed 

milk, 
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 

when the meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 

named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to 

card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or re- 
pair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other iinpi ment of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's 
edge, 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection over- 
browed 
Large space beneath, as duly as "the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 
lamp J 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn— and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
Which, going by from year to year, had 

found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 

hopes. 
Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when Luke had reached his eigh- 
teenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they 

sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar 

work, 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighborhood. 
And was a public symbol of the Hfe 
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 

chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large jjrospect, north and 

south. 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward to the village near tlie lake ; 
And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 
Both old and young, was named The Even- 
ing Star, 

Thus living on through such a length of 
years, 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Huve loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's 

heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that bhndly works in the blood 

of all— 
Than tliat a child, more than all other gifts 
Tliat earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 

tlioughts. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
l}y tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For often- 
times 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. 
Had done him female service, not alone ♦ 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 



To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle as with a woman's gentle liand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 

stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him 

stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of 

shade. 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet 

it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the 

shade, 
With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe. 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he di-sturbed the sheep 
P>y catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared tliem, while they lay still beneath 

the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy 

grew up 
A heahhy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old ; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisitiis a perfect shepherd's staff, 
And gave it to tlie Boy ; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
And, to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin as you will divine, 
Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
And for this cause not always, I believe, 
Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
Though naught was left undone which staft 

or voice, 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 

perform. 
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could 

stand. 
Against the mountain blasts, and to thf 

heights, 

* ClippitiR is the word \x^cA iai tlie North o 
England for sJiearing. 



126 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved 

before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there 

came 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born 

again ? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew 
up: 

And now, when he had reached his eigh- 
teenth year, 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household 
lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful lidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 

bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him : and old Micliael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half iiis substance. This unlooked- 
for claim, 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
Tiiat any old man ever could iiave lost. 
As soon as he had armed himself with 

strength 
To look his trouble in the face,it seemed 
Tlie Shepherd's sole resource to sell at 

once 
A portion of*liis patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
" I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot ; the san himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us ; and if he were not false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss lil:o 
this 



Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
Tliat passes over it We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke.to him shall go, 
And with his kinsman's help and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here lie stay, 
What can be done.? Where every one is 

poor. 
What can be gained .? " 

At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought siic to 

herself. 
He was a parish -boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, 

pence. 
And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors 

bought 
A basket, which they filled with^ 

wares ; 
And, with his basket on his arm, the 
Went up to London, found a master 
Who, out of many, cliose the trusty 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous 

rich, 
And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 
Witli marble, which he sent from foreign 

lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of like 

sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man 

was glad, 
Antl thus ri-sumed : — " Well, Isabel! this 

scheme. 
These two days, has been meat and drink 

to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
— We have enough — 1 wish indeed that 1 
Were younger ; — but this hope is a good 

hope. 
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 

bf'st 
Buy for liim more, and let us send him forth 



J 'OEMS FOUNDED ON TTTE AFFECTIONS. 



27 



To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
—11: he could go, the Boy should go to- 
night." 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 
went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for 

five days 
^as restless morn and night, and all day 

l^ng 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
'J liings needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
'J'o slop her in hrr work : for, when she ^ay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two 

nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; 
And when they rose at morning she could 

see 
That all. his hopes were gone. That day at 

noon 
.^he said to Luke, while they two by them- 
selves 
Were sitting, )t the door, " Thou must not 

go: 
We have no other Chi.^ Mit thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Fatlier he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund volk;e ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Ivecovered heart. That evening her best 

fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
1-ike hap'-'y people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work : 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring; at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came, 
Witli kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
To winch, requests were added, that forth- 
with 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or 

more 
riie letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to tlie neighbors round. 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. Wiien Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this 

word 
The Housewife answered, talking much (^f 
things i 

Which, if at such short notice he should iro, | 
Would surely be forgotten. But at lengtli j 
Shtt gave consent, and Michael was at ease. I 



Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he iieard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's 

edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he 

walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he 

stopped. 
And thus the old Man spake to him :— 

" My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 

heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee crood 
When thou art from me, even if 1 should 

touch [tiiou 

On things thou canst not know of. After 

First cam'st into the world— as oft befalls 
The new-born infants — thou didst sleep 

away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's 

tongue 
Than fell u]wn thee. Day by day passed on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear cam sweeter sounds 
Than when \ heard thee by our own fire- 
side 
P'irst uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed month. 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains ; else 1 think tliat 

thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke : among these 

hills, ■ 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasjied his 

hand, 
And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need ko( 

speak. 



i28 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



—Even to the utmost I liave been to thee 
A kind and a good Fatlicr : and lierein 
I but repay a gift which 1 myself 
Received at other's hands ; for, though now 

old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Rjinember tliem vvlio lovetl me in my youth, 
h(jth of them sleep together : here they 

lived, 
As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
At length their time was come, they were 

not loth 
To give their bodies to the family mould. 
1 wished that thou shouldst live the life they 

lived : 
But, 't'ls a long time to look back, my Son, 
And see so little gain from threescore years. 
These fields were burthened when they came 

to me ; 
Till I was forty years of age, not more 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
1 toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my 

work, 
And till these three weeks past the land was 

free. 
—It looks as if it never could endure 
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man pausedj 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they 

stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he'rcsumsd : 
" This was a work for us ; and now. my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 

hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may 

live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 

part; 
I will do mine — I will begin again 
With mnnv tasks that were resigned to thee : 
l']! to the hei'^lits, and in among the storms, 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bles.s thoe, 

Boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating 

fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — 

yes — 
' knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
T o leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound 

to me 
Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 



What will be left to us !— I'.ut. I forget 
My purposes. Lay now t'.u corner-stone, 
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment; hither turn thj 

thoughts, ' 
.•\nd God will strengthen thee ; amid all fear 
And all temptations, Luke, I pray that tliou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 

lived, 
Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee 

well — 
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt 

see 
A work which is not here : a covenant 
'Twill be between us : but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last. 
And bear thy memory with me lo tht 
grave." 
The Shepherd ended here ; and Lukr 

stooped down, 
And, as iiis Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the 

sight 
The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his 

heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 

wept ; 
And to the house together they returned, 
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seem- 
ing peace. 
Ere the night fell:-- with morrow's dawn 

the Boy 
liegan his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed their 

doors. 
Came fortli with wishes and with farewell 

prayers. 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 
A good report did from their Kinsman 

come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were 

throughout 
" Tiie prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

liearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once 

again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and 

now 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



139 



Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke 

began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-j^lace beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
"Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
1 have conversed with more than one who 

v/cU 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been . om youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked i;p to L^un and 

cloud, 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep. 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was 

he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to 

time. 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold 

wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband: at her death the 

estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evening 

Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through 

the ground 
On vv-hicii it stood : great changes have been 

wrought 
In all the neighborhood : — yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll. 



THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE 

SIDE. 



How beautiful when up a lofty height 
Honor ascends among the humblest pjoor, 
And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the 

door 
Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight 
Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite 
She wasted no complaint, but strove to 

make 
A just repayment, both for conscience-sake 
And that herself and hers should stand up- 

right 
In the world's eye. Her work when daylight 

failed 
Paused not, and through the depth of night 

she kept 
Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed 
With some, the noble Creature never slept ; 
Put, one by one, tlie hand of death assailed 
llcr children from her inmost heart bcwcpt. 

II. 
The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears 

to flow. 
Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried 

Son 
Before her eyes, last Child of many gone — 
His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! 
His very feet briglit as the dazzling snow 
Which they are touching : yea, far brighter, 

even 
As that which comes, or seems to come, from 

heaven, 
Surpasses aught these elements can show. 
Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that 

hour 
Whate'er befell she could not grieve or pine ; 
But the Transfigured, in and out of season. 
Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a 

power 
Over material forms that mastered reason. 
Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make hei 

thine ! 

III. 
But why that prayer? as if to her could 

come 
No good but by the way that leads to bliss 
Through Death,— so judging we should 

judge amiss. 
Since reason failed want is her threatened 

doom, 
Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom : 



[30 



POEMS FOU.VDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss 
The air or laugh upon a precipice ; 
No, passing through strange sufferings to- 
ward tlie tomb 
She smiles as if a martyr's crown was won : 
Oft, when hght breaks through clouds or 

waving trees, 
^Vith outspread arms and fallen upon her 

knees 
riie Mother hails in her descending Son 
An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies 
Her own angelic glorv seems begun. 



XXXIV. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 

[The sul^ject of the followinp poem is from tlie 
Orlaiidus of the author's friend, Keiieiin 
Henry Digby: and tlie libcny is taken of in- 
scribing it to him as an acknowledgment, 
Iiowever unworthy, of pleasure and instruc- 
tion derived from liis numerous and valuable 
\vritings,illustrativeof the piety and chivalry 
of tlic olden tune. J 



You have heard " a Spanish Lady 

How she wooed an English man ; "* 
Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
Daughter of the proud Soldan ; 
How she loved a Christian Slave, and told 

her pain 
Dy word,look, deed, with hope that he might 
love again. 

II. 
*' Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 

Said she, lilting up her veil ; 
" Pluck it for me, gentle gardener, 
Ere it wither and grow pale." 
•' Princess fair, I till the ground, but mny 

not take 
From twig or bed an humbler flower, even 
for your sake ! " 

III. 
" Grieved am 1, submissive Christian ! 

To behold thy captive statt ; 
Women, in your land, may pity 
(May they not?) the unfortunate." 
*Yes, kind Lady ! otherwise man could not 

bear 
Life, which to every one that breathes is full 
of care." 

* See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old 
ballad, "The Spanish Lady's Love:" from 
which Poem the form of stanza, as suitable to 
dialogue, is adoptedt 



IV. 

" Worse than idle is compassion 

If it end in tears and sighs ; 
Thee from bondage would I rescue 
And from vile indignities ; 
Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high de 

gree. 
Look up — and help a hand that longs tu sei 
thee free." 



" Lady! dread the wish, nor venture 

In such peril t(j engage ; 
Think how it would stir against you 
Your most loving Father's rage ; 
Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with 

shame, 
Should troubles overflow on her from whom 
it came." 

VI. 

" nenciTms Frank ! the just in effort 

Are of inward jjcace secure: 
Hardshij^s for the brave encountered, 
Even the feeblest nii^v endure : 
If almighty grace through me thy chains un- 
bind 
My father for slave's work may seek a slave 
in mind." 

VII. 

" Princess, at this burst of goodness. 

My long-frozen heart grows warm!" 
" Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
Me to save from chance of harm : 
Leading such companion, I that gilded 

dome. 
Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his 
worst home." 

VIII. 

" Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess ! 

And y ur brow is free from scorn. 
Else these words would come like 
mockery, 
Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
" Whence the undeserved mistrust ? Too 

wide apart 
Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes 
could see the heart ! " 

IX. 

'• Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 

These base implements to wield ; 
Rusty lance, 1 ne'er shall grasp thee, 
Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 
Never see my native land, nor castle towers, 
Nor Her who thinking of nie there countf 
widowed hours." 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



1 7. 1 



X. 

** Prisoner ! pardon youthful lancics 

Wedded ? If you can, say no ! 
Blessed is and be your consort ; 
Hopes I cherished— L't them go ! 
Handmaid's privilege would leave my pur- 
pose free, 
Without another link to my felicity.^ 

XI. 

'* Wedded love with loyal Christians, 

Lady, is a mystery rare ; 
IJody, heart, and soul in union, 
Make one being of a pair. " 
" Humble love in me would look for no re- 
turn, 
Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but can- 
not burn." 



" Gracious Allah ! by such title 
Do I dare to thank the God, 
Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
Flower of an imchristian sod ! 
Or hast thou put off wings wluch thou in 

heaven dost wear ? 
What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? 
where am 1 ? where ? " 

XIII. 

Here broke off the dangerous converse : 

Less mipassioned words might tell 
How the pair escaped together, 
Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
Of sorrow in her heart while through her 

father's door. 
And from her narrow world, she passed for 
evermore. 

XIV. 

But affections higher, holier, 

Urged her steps ; she shrunk from trust 
In a sensual creed that trampled 
Woman's birthright into dust. 
Little be the wonder then, the blame be none. 
If she, a timid Maid, hath put such boldness 
on. 



Judge both Fugitives with knowledge : 

In those old romantic days 
Mighty were the soul's commandments 
To support, restrain, or raise. 
Foes might hang upon their path, snakes 

rustle near. 
But nothing from their inward selves had 
they to fear. 



Thought infirm ne'er came between theiri, 

Whether prmting desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gatlicring 
Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold 

moonbeam 
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a 
crystal stream. 

XVII. 

On a friendly deck reposing 

They at length f(jr Venice steer ; 
There, when they had closed their vo-a"';, 
One, who daily on the pier 
Watched for tidings from the East, bch'. M 

his Lord, 
Fell down and clasped his knees for jo) , not 
uttering word. 

XVIII. 

Mutual was the sudden transport ; 

Breathless questions followed fast, 
Years contracting to a moment, 
Each word greedier tlian the last ; 
" Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return 

with speed, 
And of this Stranger speak by whom her 
lord was freed. 



Say that I, who might have languisln 

Drooped and pined till life was spcnl, 
Now before the gates ol Stolberg 
My deliverer would present 
For a crowning recompense, the prccK us 

grace 
Of her who in my heart still holds her 
ancient place. 

XX. 

Make it known that my Companion 

Is of royal eastern blood, 
Thirsting after all perfection. 
Innocent, and meek, and good, 
Though with misbelievers bred: but that 

dark night 
W'ill holy Church disperse by beams o' 
gospel-light. 

XXI. 

Afiftly went t'liat gray-haired Servant, 
Soon returned a trusty Page 
Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
Thanks and praises, each a gage 
For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's 

way, 
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fe»r9 
allay. 



«3' 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



XXII. 

And how blest the Reunited, 

While beneath tlieir castie-walls, 
Runs a deafening noise of welcome !— 
Blest, though every tear tliat falls 
Ooth in its silence of past sorrow tell, 
\nd makes a meeting seem most lilvc a dear 
farewell. 

xxni. 
Through a haze of human nature, 

Glorified by heavenly light. 
Looked the l:)cautiful Deliverer 
Oil that overpowering sight, 
While across her virgin cheek pure blushes 

strayed, 
For every' tender sacrifice her heart had 
made. 

XXIV. 

On the ground tlie weeping Countess 

Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's liand ; 
Act of soul-devoted homage. 
Pledge of an eternal band : 
Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie, 
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd 
did ratify. 

XXV. 

Constant to the fair Armenian, 

Gentle pleasures round her moved, 
Like a tutelary spirit 

Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 
Christian meekness smoothed for all the 

path of life. 
Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, 
their only strife. 

XXVI. 

Mute memento of that union 

In a Saxon church survives, 
Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculp- 
tured 
As between two wedded Wives, — ' 
Figures with armorial signs of race and 

birth, 
!lnd the vain rank the pilgrims bore while 
yet on earth. 
1830. ^ 

XXXV. 

LOVING AND LIKING: 

IRREGULAR VERSES, 
ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 

(BY MY SISTER.) 

There's more in words than I can teach : 
Y?t listen, Child !— i would not preach 5 



But only give some plain directions 

To guide your speech and your affections. 

Say not you love a roasted fowl, 

But you may love a screaming owl, 

And, if you can, the unwiekly toad 

That crawls from his secure abode 

Within the mossy garden wall 

When evening dews begin to fall. 

Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 

W^hat wonders in that circle lie ! 

So clear, so bright, our father said 

lie wears a jewel in his head! 

And when, upon some showery day, 

Into a path or public way 

A frog leaps out fiom bordering grass, 

Startling the timid as they pass, 

Do you observe him, and endeavor 

To take the intruilcr into favor. 

Learning from him to find a reason 

For a light heart in a dull season. 

And you may love him in the pool, 

That is for him a happy school, 

In which he swims as taught by nature. 

Fit pattern for a human creature, 

Glancing amid the water bright. 

And sending upward sparkling light. 

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
A love for things that have no feeling ; 
The snrings first rose by you espied 
May fill your breast with joyful pride ; 
And you may love the strawberry-flower. 
And love the strawberry in its bower ; 
But when the fruit, so often praised 
For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
Say not you love the delicate treat. 
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 
Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 
Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
Deadly foe both of mouse and rat ; 
R -member she follows the law of her kind, 
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 
1 Icr tread that would scarcely crush a worm, 
And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 

1 would not circumscribe your love : 
It may soar with the eagle and brood with 

the dove. 
May pierce the earth with the patient mole 
Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
Loving and liking are the solace of life. 
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death 

bed of strife. 
You love your father and your mother, 
Your grown-up and youi baby-brother j 



POEMS FOUND ILD OM THE AFFECTIONS. 



n-':^ 



You ]ov2 your sister, and your friends, 
And countless blessinjjs which God sends 
And while these right affections play, 
You live each moment of your day ; 
They lead you on to full content, 
And liking fresh and innocent, 
Tliat store the mind, the memory feed, 
And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
But likings come, and i^ass away ; 
'Tis /ctr that remains till our latest day : 
Our heavenward guide is holy love. 
And will be our bliss with saints above, 
1832. 



XXXVI. 



FAREWELL LINES, 

" High bliss is only for a higher state," 
But, surely, if severe afflictions borne 
With patience merit the reward of ])eace. 
Peace ye deserve ; and may the solid good, 
Sought by a wise though late exchange, and 

here 
With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof 
To you accorded, never be withdrawn. 
Nor for the world's best promises renounced. 
Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, 
Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 
That lonely union, privacy so deep, 
Such calm employments, such entire content. 
So when the rain is over, tlie storm laid, 
A pair of herons oft-times have I seen. 
Upon a rocky islet, side by side, 
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease : 
And so, when night with grateful gloom had 

fallen, 
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they 

shared, 
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, 
Each with the other, on the dewy ground. 
Where He that made them blesses their 

repose. — 
When wandering among lakes and hills I 

note. 
Once more, those creatures thus by nature 

paired, 
And guarded in their tranquil state of life, 
Even as your happy presence to my mind 
Their union brought, will they repay tiie debt, 
And send a tiiankful spirit back to you, 
With hope that we, dear Fricndb ! shall 

meet again. 



XXXVII. 

THE REDBREAST. 

(suggested in a WESTMORELAND COT- 
TAGE.) 

Driven in by .Autumn's sharpening air 

From half-stripped woods and pa.stures b..re. 

Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 

Not like a beggar is he come. 

But enters as a looked-for guest, 

Confiding in his ruddy breast. 

As if it were a natural shield 

Charged with a blazon on the field, 

Due to that good and pious deed 

Of which we in the Ballad read. 

But pensive fancies putting by. 

And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 

He plays the expert ventriloquist; 

And, caught by glimpses now — now missed, 

Puzzles the listener with a doubt 

If the soft voice he throws about 

Comes from within doors or without I 

Was ever such a sweet confusion, 

Sustained by delicate illusion.'' 

He's at your elbow — to your feeling 

The notes are from the floor or ceiling ; 

And there's a riddle to be guessed, 

Till you have marked his heaving chest, 

And busy throat whose sink and swell 

Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 

In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 

Heart-pleased we smile upon the '^ird 
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
Commend him, when he's only heard. 
But small and fugitive our gain 
Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
With languid limbs and patient head 
Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; 
Where now, she daily hears a strain 
That cheats her of too busy cares. 
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers, 
And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
The fever of that pale-faced Child ; 
Now cooling, with his passing wing. 
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring r 
Recalling now, with descant soft 
Shed round her pillow from aloft. 
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, 
.And llie invisible sympathy 
Of " Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Blessing the bed she lies upon 1 " * 

* The words — 

"Matthew, M;irk, and Luke, and J. ho, 
Bless tlie bed that I lie on," 
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use 
tiirough the noithem coui.ties. 



^34 



POEMS rOLJNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



And sometimes, just as listening ends 
]n slumber, with the cadence blends 
A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
! .<y that the Cherubs carved in stone, 
When clouds gave way at dead of night 
And the ancient church was filLd with 

light, 
Used to sing in heavenly tone, 
Above and round the sacred places 
They guard, with wmged baby-faccG. 

Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands 
Nurtured by hospitable hands: 
Free entrance to tliis cot has he, 
Entrance and exit both yet free ; 
And, when the keen unruffled weather 
That thus brings man and bird together, 
Fhall with its pleasantness be past, 
And casement closed and door made fast, 
To keep at bay the howling blast, 
lie needs not fear the season's rage, 
For_the whole house is Robin's cage. 
Wliether the bird flit here or there, 
O't'r table //Y/, or perch on chair. 
Though some may frown and make a stir 
To scare him as a trespasser. 
And he belike will flinch or start, 
G(!0 1 friends he has to take his part ; 
One chiefly, who with voice and look 
Pleads for him from the chimrtey-nook, 
VVhere sits the Dame, and wears away 
Her long and vacant holiday; 
With images about her heart, 
Reflected from the years gone by 
On human nature's second infancy. 

1834. 



XXXVIII. 

HER EYES ARE WILD. 
I. 

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 

The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 

Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 

And she came far from over the main. 

She has a baby on her arm, 

Or else she were alone : 

And underneath the hay-stack warm, 

And on the greenwood stone, 

She talked and sung the woods among, 

And it was in the English tongue. 

II. 
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad. 
But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 



And I am happy when I sing 
Full many a sad and doleful thing: 
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 
I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
But safe as in a cradle, here 
My lovely baby! thou shalt be : 
To thee I know too much I owe; 
I cannot work thee any woe 



A fire was once within my brain ; 
And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, tliree, 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at mcl 
But then there came a sight of joy ; 
It came at once to do me good ; 
I waked, and saw my little boy, 
My little boy of flesh and blood; 
Oh joy for me that sight to see I 
For he was here, ar..J only he. 



Suck, little babe, oh, suck again ! 
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 
Oh ! press me witli thy little hand ; 
It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 
I feel tiiy little fingers prest. 
Tiie breeze I see is in the tree : 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 



Oh ! love me, love me, little boy I 
Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
And do not dread the waves below, 
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; 
The high crag cannot work me harm, 
Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
The babe I carry on my ai m. 
He saves for me my precious soul ; 
Then happy lie ; for blest am I ; 
Without me my sweet babe would die 



Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 

Bold as a lion will I be ; 

And I will always be thy guide, 

'J'hrough hollow snows and rivers wide 

I'll build an Indian bower ; I know 

The leaves that make the softest bed -. 

And, if from me thou wilt not go, 

But still be true till I am dead. 

My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 

As merry as the birds in spring. 



FORMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS 



^V5 



Thy father cares not for my breast, 
Tis thine, sweet bdby, there to rest ; 
Tis all thine own ! — and, if its hue 
Be changed, that was S" fair to view, 
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
My beauty, httle child, is flown, 
Hut thou wilt live with me in love; 
And what if my poor check be brown? 
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see 
How pale and wan it else would be. 



Dread not the"r taunts, my little Life ; 
1 am thy father's wedded wife ; 
And underneath the spreading tree 
We two will live in honesty. 
If his sweet boy he could fors.VK-, 
With me he never would have stayed ; 
From him no harm my babe can t-;k/^ ; 
But he, poor man ! is wretched made i 
And every day we two will pray 
For hiHtt that's gone and far away. 



I'll teach my boy the sweetest thinfjs; 

I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips are still^ 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill, 

— Where art thou gone, my own dear childi' 

What wicked looks are those I see .'' 

Alas ! alas ' that look so wild, 

It never, never came from me : 

If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 

Then I must be forever sad. 



Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb! 

I'or I thy own dear motiier am : 

My love for thee has well been tried: 

I've sought thy father far and wide. 

i know tlie poisons of the shadr; 

I know the earth-nuts fit for food : 

I'hen, pretty dear, be not afraid : 

We'll find thy father in the wood. 

Now laugh and be gay, to the woods awiy' 

And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found 
unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents must liave occurred, or feelings been ex- 
perienced, which wi.l have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wisli to 
give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratificatioti of such feelings. Names 
have been given to P.aces by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems 
wrUen in consequence. 



I. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear 
'I'he Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
Ran with a yotmg man's speed ; and yet the 

voice 
Of waters which the winter had supplied 
Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
Ant! hopes and wishes, from all living things 
W^nt circling, like a multitude of sounds, 
'i'hi budding groves seemed eager to tirgeon 
The steps of June ; as if their various hues 
Were only hindrances that stood between 
Them and their object : but, meanwhile, 

prevailed 
Such an entire contentment in the air 
That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
With which it looked on thisdelightfr.l day 
Were native to tlie summer. — Up the urook 
I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
At length I to a sudden turning came 
In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
The stream, so ardent in its course before, 
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all 
Which I till then had lieard appeared the 

voice 
Of common pleasure : beast and bird, V.ie 

lamb, 
The shepherd's dog, tlie "linnet and the 

thrush 
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 
Which, while I listened, seemed like the 

wild growth 
Or like some natural produce of the air, 
That could not cease to be. Green leaves 

were here ; 
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks — the birch, 
The yew, the holly, and the bright green 

thorn, 
With hanging islands of resplendent furze: 
And, on a .^immit, distant a short space, 



By any who should look beyond the dell, 
A single mountam-cottage might be seen. 
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
" Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this 

wild nook, 
INIy Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
Soon did the spot become my other 

home. 
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
And, of the shepherds who have seen me 

there, 
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
Years after we arc gone and in our graves. 
When they have cause to speak of this wild 

place, 
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
1800. 



TO JOANNA. 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
The time of early youth ; and there you 

learned. 
From years of quiet industry, to love 
The Jiving Beings by your own fireside, 
With such a strong devotion that your heart 
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
Who look upon the hills with tenderness. 
And make dear friendships with the streams 

and groves. 
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind. 
Dwelling retired in oin- simplicity 
Among the woods and fields, we love you 

well, 
Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
So distant from us now for two long years, 
That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
However trivial, if you thence be taught 
That they, with whom you once were happy, 

talk 
Familiarly of you and of old times. 



POEAfS OJV Tim NAMING OF PLACES. 



n^i 



While I was seated, now some ten days 

past, 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neiglibor, the old steeple-tower, 
Tlie Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me ; and when he had 

asked, 
■' I low fares Joanna, tliat wild-hearted Maid ! 
And wlien will she return to us ? " he paused ; 
And, after short excliange of village news, 
He with grave looks demanded, for what 

cause, 
Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
1, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
Of formidable size had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
— Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
luigendeied between malice and true love, 
1 was not loth to be so catechised. 
And' this was my reply :— " As it befell, 
(.)ne summer moniiii^^ we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
— 'Twas tiiat deliglitful sea.son when the 

broom, 
Full-flowered, and visible in every steep, 
Along the co}>ses rims in veins of gold. 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
And when we came in front of tliat tall rock 
That eastward looks, I there stopped short — 

and stood 
Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
From base to summit : such delight I found 
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and 

flower, 
That intermixture of delicious hues, 
Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
In one impression, by connecting force 
Of their own beauty, imaged m the heart. 
—When 1 had gazed perhaps two minutes' 

space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
riiat ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a 

sleep, [again ; 

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed 
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag, 
Was ready with her cavern ; Ilammar-scar 
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth 
A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg 

heard, 
And Fairfield answered with a mountain 

tone ; 
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw bk-w 
His speakmg trumpet: back out of the 

clouds 



Of Glaramara southward come the voice ; 
.'Vnd Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 
— Now whether (said I (o our cordial Friend, 
Wlio in the hey-day of astonishment 
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
A work accomplished by two biotherhood 
Of ancient mountams, or my ear was touched 
Witii dreams and visionary impulses 
To me alone imparted, sure 1 am 
That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
And. while we both were listening, to my side 
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
To shelter from some object of her fear. 
—And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen 

moons 
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on r. calm 
And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
In memory of affections old and true, 
I chiselled out in those rude characters 
Joanna's name deep in the living stone : — 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
.Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's 
Rock." 
iSoo. 

Note.—\x\ Cumberland and Westmoreland 
are several Inscriptions upon the native rock, 
which from the wasting of time, and tlie rude- 
ness of the workmanship, have bt-en mistaken 
for Runic. They are witliout doubt Roman. 

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the 
River whicli, flowing through the lakes of Cras- 
mere and Rydaie, falls into Wynandermeie. 
On Helmcrag, tliat impressive single mountain 
at the liead of tlie Vale of Giasmere, is a rock 
which from most points of view hears a striking 
resemblance to an old woman cwering. Close 
by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns 
which in the language! f the country are called 
dungeons. Most of the mountains here men- 
tioned innnediaiely surround the Vale of tiras- 
more ; of .the others, some are at a considearble 
distance, but they belong to the same cluster. 



There is an Eminence, — of these ourhilU 
The last tliat parleys with the setting sim ; 
We can b hold it from our orchard-seat ; 
And, when at evening we pinsue our walk 
Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
Above us, and so distant in its htight, 
Is visible ; and often seems to send 
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
The meteors make of it a favorite haimt ; 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid heavens, is never half so tair 
As when he shines above it. 'lis m t; i.:h 



138 



POEMS OU THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



The loneliest place we have among the 

clouds. 
And She who dwells with me, whom I have 

loved 
With such communion that no place on 

earth 
Can ever be a solitude to me, 
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 

1800. 

IV. 

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, 
A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
Between the water and a winding slope 
Of copse and thicket, leaves tlie eastern 

sliore 
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
And there myself and two beloved Friends, 
One calm September morning, ere the mist 
Had altogetlier yielded to the sun, 
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
Ill suits the road with one in haste ; but 

we 
Played with our time ; and, as we strolled 

along, 
It was our occupation to observe 
Such objt cts as the waves had tossed ashore— 
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
Or tlie dry wreck. And, in our vacant moiu'. 
Not seldom did we stop to watcli soau^ tult 
Each on the other heaped, along the line 
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm 

lake. 
Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
And starting off again with freak as sudden ; 
In all its sportive wanderings, alHlif wliile, 
Making report of an invisible breeze 
'I'iiat was its wings, its chariot, and its horse. 
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 

And often, trifling with a privilege 

.Mike indulged to all, we paused, one now, 

And now the other, to point out, perchance 

'I'o pUick,some flower or water-weed,too fair 

Fithf^rlo be divided from the place 

On wiiich it grew, or to be left alone 

Te its own beauty. Many such there are, 

F^air ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall 

fern. 
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named ; 
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
On GrasniL-re's beach, than Naiad by the 

side 
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
Sole-si tt in;; by the shores of old romance. 
— So fared we that bright morning : from 

the liclds. 



Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busj 

mirth 
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls> 
Delighted much to listen to those sounds. 
And feeding thus our fancies we advanced 
Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, 
Through a thin veil of glittering haze waf 

seen 
Before us, on a point of jutting land ; 
The tall and upright figure of a Man 
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
" Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, 
" The Man must be, who thus can lose a 

day 
Of the mid harvest, when the laborer's hire 
Is ample, and some little might be stored 
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time " 
Thus talkmg of that Peasant, we approached 
Close to the spot where with his rod and 

line 
He stood alone ; whereat he turned his head 
To greet us — and we saw a Man worn down 
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken 

cheeks 
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 
That for my single self 1 looked at them, 
Forgetful of the body they sustained. — 
Too weak to labor in the harvest field. 
The Man was using his best skill to gain 
.•\ pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
Tiiat knew not of his wants. 1 will not say 
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor 

how 
The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
With all its lo\ t-Iy images, was changed 
To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
What need there is to be reserved in speech 
.\nd temper all our thoughts with chanty. 
— Therefore, unwilling to forget that day. 
My F'riend, Myself, and She who th.n re 

ceived [plac« 

The same admonishment, have called tb 
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
.\s e'er by mariner was given to bay 
C)r foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; 
And Point Rash-Judgment is the namt 

it bears. 
1800. 



TO M. H. 



Our walk was far among tlie ancient tree*; 
There was no road, nor any woodman'* 
path ; 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



139 



But a thick umbrage — checking the wild 

growth 
Of weed and sapUns;, alon? soft green turf 
Beneath the branches— of itself had made 
A track, that broun;ht us to r slip of lawn, 
And a small bed of water in tlie woods. 
\}\ round this pool both flocks and iierds 

mi^ht drink 
3n its firm margin, even as from a well, ^ 
Or some stone basin which the herdsman s 

hand , 

Had shaped for their refreshment ; nor did 

sun, 
Or wind, from any quarter ever come> 
But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
This glade of water and this one green field, 
'riie spot was made by Nature for herself ; 
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remam 
Unknown to them ; but it is beautiful ; 
And if a man should plant his cottage near. 
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
And blend its waters with his daily meal. 
He would so love it that in his death-hour 
Its imaoe would survive among his thoughts : 
And th'erefore, my sweet Mary, this still 

Nook, 
With all its beeches, we have named from 
You ! 
1800. 



VI. 



When, to the attractions of the busy 

world, 
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
Sliarp season followed of continual storm 
In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 
Pathway, and lane, and public road were 

clogged 
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a 
hill , 

At a short distance from my cottage, stands 
A stately Fir-grove, whither J was wont 
'i'o hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 
■Jf that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth. 
The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I 

loth . ,. , 

To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds 
Tliat, for protection from the nipping blast. 
Hither repaired.— .'V single beech-tree grew 
W^ithin this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush s 



A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
At such small elevation from the ground 
As gave sure sign that they, who m that 

house 
Of nature and of love had made their home 
Amd the fir-trees, all the summer long 
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain- 
flock, 
Would watch my motions with suspicions 

stare, 
r rom the remotest outskirts of the grove,—- 
Some nook where they had made their final 

stand. 
Huddling together from two fears— the fear 
Of me and of the storm. Full many an 

hour 
Here did 1 lose. But in this grove the trees 
Had been so tliickly planted, and had 

thriven 
In such perplexed and intricate array. 
That vainly did I seek beneath their stems 
A length of open space, where to and fro 
My feet might move without concern or 

care ; , , , i. 

And, baffled thus, though earth from day to 

Was fettered, and the air by storm dis- 
turbed, . 
I ceased the shelter to frequent,— and prized 
Less than 1 wished to pi ize, that calm recess. 
The snows dissolved and genial Spring 
returned 
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other 
haunts . 
Meanwhile were mine ; till, one briglU April 

day. 
By cliance retiring from the glare ot noon 
To tliis forsaken covert, there I found 
\ hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
And winding on with such an easy line 
Alon"- a natural opening, that 1 stood 
Mucli wondering how 1 could have sought 

in vain 'r 1 • 1 

For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
For an allotted interval of ease. 
Under my cottage-roof, liad gladly come 
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
And with the sight of this same path— be- 
gun, 
Be-^un and ended, in the shady grove, 
Pleksant conviction flashed upon my mind 
That, to this opportune recess allured. 
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
A heart more wakeful ; and had worn tbo 
track 



i4<) 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 

In that habitual restlessness of foot 

That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and 

o'er 
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
Wliile she pursues her cour-se through the 

dreary s&a. 

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's 

pleasant shore, 
And taken thy first leave cf those green 

hills 
And rocks tliat were the play-ground of thy 

youth, 
Year followed year, my Brother ! and we 

two. 
Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
Each other's mind was fashioned ; and at 

length. 
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
Between us there was little other bond 
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
But tliou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst 

carried 
Undying recollections ; Nature there 
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she 

still 
Was with thee ; and even so didst thou be- 
come 
A silent Poet ; from the solitude 
Of the vast sea didst bring a watch.fwl heart 
Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
And an eye practiced like a blind man's 

touch. 
— Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone ; 
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
Could I withhold thy honored name,— and 

now 
I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
Thither do 1 withdraw when cloudless suns 
Shine hot, or wind blows troubicsome and 

strong ; 
And there I sit at evening when the steep 
Of Silvcr-liow, and Crasmere's peaceful lake, 
And one green island, gleam between the 

stems 
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
Of clouded splendor, on this dream-like 

sight 
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee. 
My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 
Nor seldom^ if I rightly piiess, wh^le Thou, 
Muttering the verses which I nutored first 
Among the mountains, tinough the mid- 
night watch 



Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
In some far region, here, while o'er my head. 
At every impulse of the moving breeze. 
The fir-grove murmur with a sca-like sound 
Alone 1 tread this path ; — for aught I knew, 
Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 
Of undist.nguishable sympatliies. 
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
When we, and others whom we love, shall 

meet 
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
1805. 

Note. — This wish was not granted ; the la- 
mented Person not long after perished by ship- 
wreck, ni discharge of Ins duty as Commander 
of the Honorable East India Company's Ves- 
sel, the Earl of Abergavenny. 



VII. 



Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 

base 
Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks 

ascend 
In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair 
Rising to no ambitious height ; yet both. 
O'er lake and stream, mountain and flowery 

mead. 
Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes 
Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help. 
To one or other brow of those twin Peaks 
Were two adventurous Sisters wont to climb, 
And took no note of the hour while thence 

they gazed, 
The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side 

by side. 
In speechless admiration. 1, a witness 
.•\nd frequent sharer of their calm delight 
With thankful heart, to either Eminence 
Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore. 
Now are they parted, far as Death's cold 

hand 
Hath power to part the Spirits of those wlic 

love 
As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacies- 
That, while the generations of mankind 
Follow each other to their hiding-place 
In time's abyss, are privileged to endure 
Beautiful in yourselves and richly graced 
With like command of beauty— grant your 

aid 
For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent, claini, 
That their pure joy in nature may survive 
From age to age in blended memory. 
1845. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



I. 

A MORNING EXERCISE. 

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the c;lad, 
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to 

throw ; 
Sending sad shadows after things not sad, 
i'copling the harmless fields with signs of 

woe : 
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry 
Becomes an echo of man's misery. 

Blithe ravens croak of death ; and when 
the owl 
Tries his two voices for a favorite strain — 
Tu-whit — Tic-Tvhoo ! the unsuspecting fowl 
Forebodes mishap or seems but to com- 
plain ; 
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 

Through border wilds where naked In- 
dians stray. 

Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill ; 

A feathered task-master cries, '- Work 
away!" 

And, in thy iteration, " Whip poor 
Will!"* 

Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave. 

Lashed out of life, nor quiet in the grave. 

What wonder? at her bidding, ancient 

lays 
Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel ; 
And that fleet messenger of summer days, 
The Swallow, twittered subject to like 

spell ; 
But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant 

Lark 
To melancholy service — hark! O hark! 

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn. 
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed ; 
But He is risen, a later star of dawn. 
Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy 
cloud ; 



* See Waterjou's Wanderings in South 
America. 



Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark ; 
The happiest bird that sprang out of the 
Ark! 

Hail, blest above all kinds ! — Supremely 
skilled 
Restless with fixed to balance, high with 

low, 
Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to 
1 build 

On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthlv ties, 
j Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 

I Faithful, though swift as lightning, the 

I meek dove ; 

, Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; 

i So constant with thy downward eye of love, 
Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 
So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
In power of wing and never-wearied voice. 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted 

strain, 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
i Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege I to 

sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

How would it please old Ocean to par- 
take, 
With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, 
The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
Where earth resembles most his own 

domain ! 
Urania's self might welcome with pleased 

ear 
These matins mounting towards her native 
sphere. 

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no 

bars 
To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the 

stars 
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee ?till and 



mute; 



C14O 



»v;2 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



For not an eyelid r.^\\\d ti ^leep incfine 
Wert tnou rti.Ki,^ vh^Hi, jKi^iiig as they 
shine ! 
1828. 



II. 



A FLOWER GARDEN, 

AT COLEORTON HALL, LE1CESTER.<KI J:i,. 

Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 

Wliile fluttering o'er this gay Recess 

I'inions that fanned the teeming mould 

Of Eden's blissful wilderness, 

Did only softly-stealing hours 

There close the peaceful lives of flowers ? 

Say, when the moving creatures saw 
All kinds commingled without fear. 
Prevailed a like indulgent law 
For the still growths that prosper hcivi ^ 
Did wanton fawn and kid forbear 
The half- blown rose, the lily spare ? 

Or peeped they often from their beds 
And prematurely disappeared, 
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
A bosom to the sun endeared ? 
If such their harsh untimely doom. 
It falls not here on bud or bloom. 

All summer long the happy Eve 
Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind. 
Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve. 
From the next glance she casts, to find 
That love for little things by Fate 
Is rendered vain as love for great. 

Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, 
So subtly are our eyes beguiled 
We see not nor suspect a bound, 
No more than in some forest wild ; 
The sight is free as air — or crost 
Only by art in nature lost. 

And, though the jealous turf refuse 
By random footsteps to be prcst, 
And feed on never-sullied dews, 
Yi\ gentle breezes from the west. 
With all the ministers of hope 
Are tempted to this sunny slope. 

^nd hither throngs of birds resort ; 
Some, inmates lodged in shady nests. 
Some, perched on stems of stately port 
That nod to welcome transient guests j 
While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
Appear not more shut out than they. 



Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) 
This delicate enclosure shows 
Of modest kindness, that would hide 
The firm protection she bestows ; 
Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
Ensuring peace to innocence. 

Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
Abruptly spreading to depart. 
She left that farewell offering, 
Memento for some docile heart ; 
That may respect the good old age 
Wlien fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
And Truth would skim the flowery glade, 
Thougli entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
1S24 



A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
Rushed o'er the wood with startling soundj 
Then — all at once the air was still, 
And showers of hailstones pattered round, 
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 
I sat within an undergrove 
Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; 
A fairer bower was never seen. 
From year to year the spacious floor 
With withered leaves is covered o'er. 
And all the year the bower is green. 
But see! where'er the hailstones drop 
The withered leaves all skip and hop; 
There's not a breeze— no breath of air ^ 
Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
Along the floor, beneath the shade 
By those embowering hollies made, 
The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
As if with pipes and music rare 
Some Robin Gcod-fellow were there, 
And all those leaves, in festive glee. 
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 
1799. 



THE WATERFALL AND THE 
EGLANTINE. 



" Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,* 

Exclaimed an angry Voice, 

" Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 



POEnrs oj 



yiE FAA'CY. 



143 



That, all bespattered with his fcnim, 
And dancing iiigh and dancing low, 
Was living, as a child might know, 
In an unhappy iiome 

II. 

* Dost thou presume my course to block ? 

Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 

To wliich thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 

The patient Rriar suffered long, 

Nor did lie utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past j 

But, seeing no relief, at last, 

He ventured to reply. 



" Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not ; 

Why should we dwell in strife? 

Wc who in this sequestered spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed — 

What pleasure through my veins you 

spread ! 
The summer long, from day to day, 
Mv leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
Nor was it common gratitude 
That did your cares repay. 



When spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths to tell 

That gentle days were nigh ! 

And in the sultry summer hours, 

I sheltered vou with leaves and flowers ; 

And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 



Hut now proud thoughts -arc in your 

breast — 
What grief is mine you see, 
Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be I 
Though of both leaf and flower bereft. 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way. 
Would deck you many a winter day, 
A happy Eglantine 1 " 



What more he said I cannot tell. 
The Torrent down the rocky dell 
Came tinmdering loud and fast ; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
The Briar quaked — and much 1 fear 
Those accents were his last. 
iSoo. 



V. 

THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 



A PASTORAL. 



His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills ; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One winter's night, when throu<;h the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andrew hold: 

And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

Were seated round their blazing lire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told. 

II. 
'■ I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
As ever tempest beat ! 
Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
.A Broom out of its feet. 
The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June. 
Breathed gently from the warm south-west j 
When, in a voice sedate with age, 
This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
His neighbor thus addressed : — 



in. 

weeks. 



through rock and 



' Eight weary 

clay, 
Along this mountain's edge, 
The Frost hath wrought both night .tnd 

day. 
Wedge driving after wedge. 
Look up ! and think, above your head 
What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
Last night, I heard a crash — 'tis true, 
The splinters took another road — 
1 .^ee them yonder — what a load 
For such a Thing as you ! 

IV. 

Vou are preparing as before 

To deck your slender shape ; 

.And yet, just three years back — no raoF»— 

You had a strange escape ; 



144 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Down from yon cliff a fra£;iiient broke ; 
It thundered down with fire and smoke, 
And Iiitherward pursued its way ; 
This ponderous block was caught by me, 
And o'er your head, as you may see, 
'Tis hanging to this day ! 



if breeze or bird to this rough steep 

Your kind's first seed did bear, 

The breeze had better been asleep, 

The bird caugiit in a snare : 

For you and your green twigs decoy 

Tiie little witless shepherd-boy 

To come and slumber in your bower ; 

And, trust me, on some sultiy noon, 

Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon I 

Will perish in one hour. 



From me this friendly warning take 
The Broom began to doze. 
And thus to keep herself awake, 
Did gently interpose : 
' My tlianks for your discourse are due 
That more than what you say is true, 
I know, and I have known it long ; 
Frail is the bond by which we hold 
Our being, whether young or old. 
Wise, foolish, weak or strong. 



Disasters, do the best we can, 

Will reach both great and small ; 

And he is oft the wisest man 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to roam 

This spot is my paternal home, 

It is my pleasant heritage ; 

My father many a hai:)py year 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attained a good old ace. 



Even such as his may be my lot. 

What cause have I to haunt 

My heart with terrors ? Am I not 

In truth a favored \)\-avX ! 

On me such bounty Sunnner pours, 

That I am covered o'tr witli flowers ; 

And, when th^ Frost is in the sky, 

Mv branches are so fresh and gay 

That you might look at me and say, 

This riant can never die. 



The butterfly, all green and gold, 
To me hath often flown, 
Here in my blossoms to behold 
Wings lovely as his own. 
When grass is chill with rain or dew, 
Beneath my i hade, the mijther-ewe 
Lies with her infant lamb; I see 
The love they to each other make, 
And the sweet joy which they partake, 
It is a joy to me.' 

X, 

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; 
The Broom might have pursued 
Her speech, until the stars of niglit 
Their journey had renewed ; 
But in the branches of the oak 
Two ravens now began t(j croak 
Their nuptial song, -a gladsome air; 
And to her own green bower the breeze 
That instant brought two stripling bees 
To rest, or murmur there. 



One night, my Children ! from the north 
There came a furious blast ; 
At break of day I ventured forth. 
And near the cliff I passed. 
The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
And struck him witii a mighty stroke, 
And whirled, and whirled him far away 
And, in one liospitable cleft. 
The little careless Broom was left 
To live for many a day." 
1800. 



TO A SEXTON. 

Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 

In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 

'Tis already like a hill 

In a field of battle made. 

Where three thousand skulls are laid '. 

These died in-peace each with the other, 

Father, sister, friend, and brother. 

Mark the spot to which I point ! 
From this platform, eight fort square 
'J'ake not even a finger-joint : 
.Andrew's whole fireside is there. 
Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
Simon's sickly daughter lies, 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



45 



From weakness now, and pain defended, 
Whom he twenty winters tended. 

Look but at the gardener's pride — 
How he glories, wlien be sees 
Roses, Hlies, side by side, 
^'iolets in families ! 
Dy tlie heart of Man, his tears, 
By liis hopes and by his fears, 
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 
Of a far superior garden. 

Tims then, each to other dear, 
Let them all in quiet lie, 
.Andrew there, and Susan here, 
Neighbors in mortality. 
And, should I live throui,di sun and rain 
Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
O Sexton, do not then remove hei'. 
Let one grave hold the Loved and L(jvcr ! 
1799. 



TO THE DAISY. 

" Her * divine skill taught me this, 
That from everything I saw 
I could some instruction draw. 
And raise pleasure to tiie height 
'Jlirough the meanest object's sight. 
Ly tiie murmur of a spring. 
Or the least bough's rustelling : 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree ; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other w^iscr man.'' 

G. Wither. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to iiill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent. 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights 1 make, — 
My tkirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love partake. 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring i)arts the clouds with softest airs. 
That she may sun thee ; 



* His muse. 



Whole Summer-fields are thine by right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 
When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a niorrice train, 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing daunted, 
Nor grieved if thou be set at naught : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
\\'e meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

De violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 

Pnnid be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling. 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunsliine lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
'i'hou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His n>€lancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower. 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
.Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Tliee should turn 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The conunon life our nature breeds : 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hatii often eased my ]-)ensive breast 

of careful sadnebs. 



14^ 



POEMS OF 'JlIE FAN'CY. 



And all day Ion;; I number yet. 
All seasons tluough, another debt, 
Whicli I, wherever thou ai t met, 

To thee am owinc; ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense 
A iiappy, genial influence, 
Coming ont knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
Tiiy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain : 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite.* 
1S02. 



O THE SAME FLOWER. 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be. 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee I 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes. 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
1 give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, 

\r\ thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all. as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

\ little Cyclops, with one eye 
St.iring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and inst.mtiy 
The freak is over, 



* Sep, in Chaucer and t)ie elder Poet-,, tli 
honors formerly paid to ihis tiuvvjr. 



The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself some faery bold 
In light to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Nt)t quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star with glittering crest. 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-'- 
May i^eace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Floiver ! for by that name at last, 
Wiien all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent creature 1 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wor.t, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 
iSo;. 



THE GREEN LINNET. 

liENfiATii these fruit-tree boughs that shetl 
Tlijir snow-white blossoms on my head 
With brij'.iitest sunshine round mj snread 

Of ;~pring's unclouded weatlier. 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet. 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Lmnet ! in thy green array, 
Pr> sidmg Spirit here to-day, 
I >ost lend tlie revels of the May ; 

And this is thy dominion. 

\Vhile birds, and butterflies and fiowers, 
M.ike all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and down the bovvers, 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Stuttering thv gladness without care 
Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
'i'h at twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
ii-.hold him perched in ecstacies, 
Yet seeming still to hover ; 



POEMS OF THE FAXCY. 



u; 



There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon liis back and body flings 
Sliadows and sunny ghmmenngs, 
That cover him ail over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A biutiier of the dancing leaves , 
Then Hits, and from the cottage eaves 

fours forth his song in gushes , 
As 11 by that exultmg strain 
He mucked and treated with disdain 
'1 he voiceless Form he choose to feign, 
VVliile fluttering in the bushes. 
1S03. 



X. 

TO A SKY-LARK. 

Up with me! up with me into the clouds : 
For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 

Up with mc, up with me into the clouds ! 
Singing, singing, 

U'lth clouds and sky about thee ringing. 
Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses d-eary 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Ha 1 ( now the wins^s of a Faery, 

Up to thee would 1 fly. 

'I'heve is madness about thee, ana joy 

divine 
In tliat song of thine; 
I.ilt me, guide me high and high 
i u thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning : 
Tliou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 
And, tliougli little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark! tliou vvould'st be loth 
■Jo be such a traveller as L 
1 l.ippy, happy Liver, 

W.tli a soul as stron^ as a mountain river 
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
Yij and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven. 
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must 

wind; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
1, with my fate contented, will plod on. 
And hope for higher raptures, when life's 

day is done. 
1S05. 



XI. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* 

Pa NSI lis, lilies, kingcups, daisies. 
Let them live upon their praises \ 
Long as there's a sun that sets. 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets. 
They will have a place in story : 
There's a flower that shall be mine. 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens they go 
Men that keep a mighty rout 1 
Pni as great as they, I trow. 
Since the day 1 found thee out, 
Little Flower !— I'll make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
liokl, and lavish of thyself; 
Since v/e needs must first have nu' 
J have seen thee, high and low, 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face 1 did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought alx)Ut her nest, 
Tliou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
WhenWe've little warmth, or none 

Poets, vain men in their mood I 
Travel witli the multitude : 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That tl-.ey all are wanton wooers; 
But the thrifty ct)ttagcr, 
Who stirs littie out of doors, 
joys to spy thee near her home : 
Spring is coming. Thou art come! 

Comfort have thou of thy meiit> 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant fact 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ;--therc's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 



* Common Pile wort. 



148 



POEMS OF THE FANCY 



111 befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the tlanng liuurs ! 
Buttercups, that will be .seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien , 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine 1 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what 1 love 1 
1803. 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet ; 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art, 

Thou must needs, 1 think, have had, 

Celandine! and long ago. 

Praise of which 1 nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 
Wliosoe'er the man might be, 
Who the fiist witii pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 
Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
Wlien the rising sun he painted, 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of winter's vanishing. 
And the children build their bowers, 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
All about with full-blown flowers, 
Tliick as sheep in shepherd's fold! 
W itli tiie proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have T sighed to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure, 
Sighed to tliink. 1 read a book, 
Only read, perhaps, bv nv: ; 
Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright coronet and Th ^e, 
And thy arch and wily wav>., 
And thy store of other praise. 



Blithe of heart, from week to wotk 
Thou dt)st play at hide-and-beek ; 
While the patient primrose sit* 
Like a beggar in the cold, 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
W hen we are all out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
By what charm of sight of smell, 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Laboring for her waxen cells, 
Fondly settle upon Thee, 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side. 
By the season multiplied ? 

'I'hou art not beyond the moon, 
iJLit a thing " beneaih our sliuon:" 
Let tiie bold discovered thrid 
In ills bark *:he polar sea ; 
Kear who will a pyramid; 
i'r.iise it is enough for me, 
If there be but three or four 
Who will love my little Flower. 
1803. 



XIII. 

THE SEVEN SISTERS', 

OR, 

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 

I. 

Seven Daughters had Lord Avchibalii, 

All cliildreu of one mother: 

You could not say in one short day 

What love they bore each other. 

A garland, of seven lilies, wrought ! 

Seven Sisters that together dwell ; 

But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 

Their father took of them no thought, 

He loved the wars so well. 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 

The solitude of Binnorie ! 

II. 

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind. 

And from the shores of Erin, 

Across the wave, a Kover brave 

To Binnorie is steering : 

Right onward to the Scottish stranc 

The gallant ship is b.orne ; 

The warriors leap upon the land. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



149 



And hark ! tlie Leader of the band 
Hath blown his bugle horn. 
Sing, niournlully, oh ! moiunfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie. 

III. 

Beside a grotto of their own, 

With boughs above then) closing, 

The Seven are laid, and in the shade 

They lie like fawns reposing. 

lUU now, upstarting with aftrighi 

At noise ot man and steed, 

Away they fly to left, to right — 

Dt your fair household, Father-knight, 

Molhinks you take small heed ! 

.^nv^, mournfully, oh! mournfully 

i iivi solitude of '-^innorie. 



Away the seven fair Campbells fly, 

And, over hill and hollow. 

With menace proud, and insult loud, 

The youthful Ivovers follow. 

Cried they, '' Your Father loves to roam 

Enough for him to find 

The empty house when he comes home ; 

For us your yellow ringlets comb, 

For us be fair and kind ! " 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The soUtude of Binnorie. 



Some close behind, some side by side, 

Like clouds in stormy weather ; 

They run, and cry, " Nay, let us die. 

And let us die together." 

A lake was near ; the shore was steep 

There never foot had been ; 

They ra-n, and with a desperate leap 

Together plunged into the deep, 

Nor ever more were seen. 

.Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 



The stream that flows out of the lake. 
As through the glen it rambles, 
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
I'or those seven lovely Campbells. 
Se/en little Islands, green and bare. 
Have risen from out the deep: 
The fishers say, those sisters fair. 
By faeries all are buried there. 
And there together sleep. 
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfullyj 
The solitude of Binnorie, 



Who fancied what a pretty sight 
This rock would be if edged around 
With living snow-drops ? circlet briglit I 
How glorious to this orchard-ground 1 
Wiio loved tiie little Rock, and set 
Upon its head this coronet? 

Was it the humor of a child? 

Or rather of some gentle maid, 

Whose brows, the day that she was styled 

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed ? 

Of m.4n mature, or niatron sage? 

Or old man toying with his age ? 

I asked— 'twas whispered : The device 
To each and all might well bclcug : 
It IS the Spirit of Paradise 
That prompts such work, a Sjiir.t strong, 
That gives to all the self-same bent 
Where life is wise and innocent. 

IS03. N 



THE REDBREAST CHASING THE 
BUTTFRFLY 

Art thou the biiu whom Man loves best, 
The pious birdVith the scarlet breast, 

Our little English Robin ; 
The bird that comes about cur doors 
When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia far inland ? 
Hie bird, that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother, 
The darling of children and men? 
Could Father Adam open his eyes 
And see this sight beneath the skies, 
He'd wish to close them again. 
—If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
Hither his flight he would bend ; 
And find his way to me, 
Under the branches of the tree: 
In and out, he darts about ; 
Can this be t'l.e bird, to man so good, 
That, after their bewildering 
Covered v>'ith leaves the little children, 

So painiujly in the wood. 
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'sl 
pursue 

A beautiful creature. 
That is gentle by nature? 



^5^ 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Beneath '^h'^ summer sky 

Fiom flo 'er to flower let him fly ; 

'Tis all that he wishes to do. 

The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness, 

He is the friend of our summer gl.iuness : 

What hinders, then, that ye should be 

Playmates in tiie sunny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ! 

His beautiful wing« in crimson are drest, 

A crimson as bright as thine own : 

VVould'st thou be happy in thy nest, 

O pious Bird! whom man loves best, 

Love him, or leave him alone! 



SONG 



FOR THE SPINNING 
WHEEL. 



FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT 
AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WEST- 
MORELAND. 

Swiftly turn (he murmuring wheel ! 
Night has brought the welcome hour 
Wiien the weary fingers feel 
Help, as if from fairy power ; 
Dewy night o'ershades the ground ; 
Turn the swift wheel round and round 1 
Now, beneath the starry sky, 
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ; 
Ply the pleasant labor, ply ! 
For the spindle, while they sleep, 
Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 
Gatliering up a trustier line. 
Short-lived likings may be bred 
By a glance from fickle eyes ; 
Hut true love is like the thread 
Wliich the kindly wool supplies, 
Wlien the flocks areall at rest 
Sleeping on the mountain's breast, 
1812, 



HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 

«' Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
When the wings of genius rise 
Their ability to measure 
With great enterprise ; 



But in man was ne'er such daring 
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
His brave spirit with the war in 
The stormy skies ! 

Mark him, how his power he uses, 
Lays it by, at will resumes! 
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 

■ Clouds and utter glooms ! 
There, he wheels in downward maze*) 
Sunward now his flight he raises, 
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 
With uninjured plumes 1 " — 

ANSWER. 

" Stranger, 'tis no act of courage 
Which aloft thou dost discern ; 
No bold bird gone forth to forage 

'Mid the tempest stern ; 
But such mockery as the nations 
See, when public perturbations 
Lift men from their native stations 

Like yon Tuft of fern ; 

Such it is ; the aspiring creature 
Soaring on undaunted wing, 
(So you fancied) is by nature 

A dull helpless thin^,. 
Cry and withered, light and yellow ;■ — 
TJuit to be the tempest's fellow ! 
Wait — and you shaJl see how hollow 

Its endeavoring ! " 
1817. 



ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN 
THE FORM OF A HARP. 

the work of e. m. s. 

Frowns are on every Mnso's face, 
Repr iaches from their lips are sent, 

That mimicry should thus disgrace 
The noble Instrument. 

A very Harp in all but size ! 

Needles for strings in apt gradation 
Minerva's self would stigmatize 

The unclassic profanation. 

Even her owji needle that subdued 

Arachne's rival spirit. 
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mocx^ 

Such honor could not merit. 

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, 

A living l«rd of melody ! 
How will her Sire be reconciled 

To the refined indignity ? 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



^5' 



I spake, when whisjjered a low voice, 

" Bard ! moderate your ire ; 
Spirits of all degrees rejoice 

In presence of the lyre 

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 

Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
And suit their slender lays. 

Soma, still more delicate of ear, 
Have lutes (believeTny words) 

Whose framework is of gossamer, 
While sunbeams are the chords. 

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, 
Made vocal by their brushing wings, 

And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
Around its pohshed strings ; 

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, 
Wliile in her lonely bower she tries 

To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 
By fanciful embroideries. 

Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores .; 
Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine 
bright, 
Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 
1827. 



TO A LADY, 

W ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULU 
WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAW- 
INGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF I'LOWEl.S 
IN THE ISLAND OK MADEIRA. 

Fair Lady ! ^an I sing of flowers 

That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
I who ne'er sate witliin their bowers. 

Nor through their sunny lawns have 
strayed .-' 
How they in sprightly dance are worn 

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, 
Or holy festal pomps adorn, 

These eyes have never seen 

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art 

No like remembrances can give, 
Your portraits still may reach the heart 

And there lor gentle pleasure live, 
While Fancy ranging with free scope 

Shall on some lovely Alien set 
A name with us endearea to hope, 

To peace, or fund regret. 



Still as we look with nicer care. 

Some new resemblance we may trace : 
A Hearfs-ease will perhaps be there, 

A Spccdu-ell may not want its place. 
And so may we, with charmed mind 

Beholding what your skill has wrought, 
Another Star-of-Bethlchcm find, 

A new Forget-me-not. 

From earth to heaven with motion fleet, 

From heaven to earth our thoughts v. U 
pass, 
A Holy-thistle here we meet 

And there a ShephcrWs weatJier-glass i 
And haply some familiar name 

Slia'll grace the fairest, sweetest plant 
Whose presence clieers the drooping lianif 

Of English Emigrant. 

Gazing she feels its power beguile 

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easiei 
breath ; 
Alas ! tiiat meek, that tender smile 

Is l^it a iiarbinger of death ; 
And pinnting with a feeble hand 

She says, in faint words by sigh-, broken, 
Bear for me to my native land 

This precious Flower, true love's las! 
token. 



Glad sight wherever new with old 

Is joined through some dear honieborn tic; 

The life of all that we behold 

Depends upon that mystery. 

Vain is the glory of the sky. 

The beauty vain of fitld and grovt, 

llnless, while with admiring -;ye 

We gaze, we also learn to love. 



XXI. 

THE CONTRAST. 

THE PARROT AND THE WREN. 



Within her gilded cage confined, 
I saw a dazzling Belle, 
A Parrot of that famous kind 
Whose name is Nonpareil. 

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; 
And, smoothed by Nature's skill. 
With pearl or gU-aming agate vioS 
Her finely-curved bilL 



152 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Her plumy mantle's living hues, 
In mass opposed to mass, 
Outshine the splendor that inhues 
The robes of pictured glass. 

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
Did never ten»pt the choice 
Of feathered Thing most delicate 
In figure and in voice. 

But, exiled from Australian bowers, 
And singleness her lot, 
She trills her song with tutored powers. 
Or mocks each casual note. 

No more of pity for regrets 
V/ith which she may have striven ! 
Now but in wantonness she frets, 
Or spite, if cause be given ; 

Arch, volatile, a sportive bird 

By social .glee inspired ; 

Ambitious to be seen or heard. 

And pleased to be admired ! 

II. p 

This moss-lined shed, £;reen, soft, and dry, 
Harbors a self-contented Wren, 
Not shunning man's abode, though shy, 
Ahnost as thought itself, of human Icen, 

Strange places, coverts unendeared. 
She never tried ; the very nest 
In which this Child of Spring was reared, 
Is warmed, thro' winter, by het feathery 
breast 

To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
A sljntier unexpected strain : 
Proof that the hermitess still lives. 
Though she appear not, and be sought in 

vain. 
Say. Dora ! tell me, by yon placid moon 
If called to choose between the tavored pan, 
Which would you be, — the bird of the saloon, 
By lady-fingers tended with nice care, 
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, 
Or Nature's Darkling of this mossy shed ? 
1825. 



XXII. 

THE DANISH BOY. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Between two sister moorland rills 
There is a spot that seems to lie 
Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 
And sacred to the sky. 



And in this smootli and open dell 
There is a teinpeststrcken tree j 
A corner-stone by jiglitning cut, 
The last stone of a lonely hut 
And in tins dell you see 
A thing no etorm can e'er destroy. 
The shadow of a Danish Boy. 



In clouds above, the lark is heard. 
But drops not here to earth for rest ; 
Within this lonesome nook the bird 
Did never build her nest. 
No beast, no bird hath here his home; 
Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
Pass high above tliose fragrant bells 
To other flowers : — to other dells 
Their burthens do they bear ; 
The Danish Boy walks here alone 
Tlie lovely dell is all his own. 



A Spirit ot noon-day is he; 

Yet seems a form of flesh and bioodi 

Nor piping shepherd shall he be. 

Nor herd-boy of the wood. 

A regal vest of fur he wears. 

In color like a raven's wing ; 

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; 

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 

As budding pines in spring; 

His helmet has a vernal grace. 

Fresh as the bloom upon his fac?. 



A harp is from his shoulder slung ; 
Resting the harp upon his knee. 
To words of a forgotten tongue, 
lie suits its melody 
Of flocks upon the neighboring hill 
He is the darling and the joy ; 
And often, wlien no cause appears, 
'J"he mountain-pomes prick tlieir ear»^ 
— Tliey hear the Danish Boy, 
While in the dell he sings alone 
Beside the tree and corner-stone. 



There sits he ; in his face you spy 

No trace of a ferocious air. 

Nor ever was a cloudless sky 

So steady or so fair. 

The lovely Danish Boy is 1^' st 

.And happy in his floweiy cove 

From bloody deeds his thoe-ghts are Ta: 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



'53 



And yet he warbles son!:;s of war, 
That seem like sonc;s of love. 
For calm and qcntlc is his mien ; 
Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
1799. 



S O N G ^ 

FOR THE WANDERING JEW. 

Though the torrents from their fountains 
Koar down many a craggy steep. 
Vet tliey find among the mountains 
Resting-places calm and deep. 

Clouds that love through air to liasten, 
Ere he storm its fury stills, 
Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
On the beads of towering hills. 

What, if through the frozen centre 
Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
Yet he has a home to enter 
In some nook of cliosen ground : 

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
Yield him no domestic cave, 
Slumbers without sense of motion, 
Couched upon the rocking wave. 
If on windy days the Raven 
Gambol like a dancing skiff. 
Not the less she loves her haven 
In the bosom of the cliff. 

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
Vagrant over desert sands. 
Brooding on her eggs reposes 
Wlien chill night that care demands. 

Day and night my toils redouble. 
Never nearer to the goal ; 
Night and day, I feel the trouble 
Of tlie Wanderer in my soul. 
iSoo. 



XXIV. 

STRAY PLEASURES. 

•' Pleasure is spread throus;h the earth 

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall 
find?'' 

By their floating mill. 
That lies dead and still. 
Behold yon Prisoners three. 
The Miller witli two Dames, on the breast 
of the Thames} 



TIic platform is small, but gives room fo« 

them all ; 
And they're dancing merrily. 

From the shore comes the notes 
To their mill where it floats. 
To their house and their mill tethered fast 
To the small wooden isle where their work 

to beguile. 
They from morning to even take whatevei 

is given ; — 
And many a blithe day they have past. 

In sight of the spires, 

All alive with the fires 
Of the sun going down to his rest, 
In tlie bioaci open eye of the solitary sky, 
They dance,- -there are three, as jocund as 

free, 
Wkile they dance on the calm river's breast. 

Man and Maidens wheel, 
They tiiemselves make the reel, 
And their music's a prey which they seize ; 
It plays not for them,— what matter? 'tis 

theirs ; 
And if they had care, it has scattered their 

cares. 
While they dance, crying, " Long as ye 
plc.^se ! '' 

They dance not for me, 
Yet mine is their glee! 
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall 

f^nd'; 
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly 

kind. 
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 

The showers of the spring 
Rouse the birds, and they sing ; 
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, 
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will 

kiss ; 
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds aftei 

his brother ; 
They are happy, for that is their right J 
1 806. 



XXV. 

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM ; 

OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 

A Pilgrim, when the summer day 
Mad closed upon his weary way. 
A lodging beggcfl b?neatli a castle's roof j 
But him the haughty Warder spurnad ; 



'51 



FOE A/6- OF THE FANCY. 



And from the gate th ■ Pilgrim turned, 
To seek such covert as the Held 
Or heath-bcsprinklcd copse might yield, 
Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 

He paced along ; and, pensively, 

Halting beneath a sliady tree, 

Whose moss-grown root might serve for 

couch or seat, 
Fixed on a Star his upward eye ; 
Tlien, from the tenant of the sky 
He turned, and watched with kindred look, 
A Glow-worifi, in a dusky nook. 
Apparent at his feet. 

The murmur of a neighboring stream, 
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
A pregnant dream, within wiiose shadowy 

bounds 
He recognized the earth-born Star, 
And T/iat which glittered from afar ; 
And (strange to witness!) from the frame 
Of tlie ethereal Orb, there came 
Intelligible sounds. 

Much did it taunt the humble Light 
'I'hat now, when day was flvxl, and night 
Husiied the dark earth, fast closing weary 

eyes, 
A very reptile could presume 
To show her taper in the gloom. 
As if in livalship with One 
Who sate a ruler on his throne 
Erected in tlie skies. 

" Exalted Star! " the Worm replied, 
" Abate this unbecoming pride. 
Or with a less uneasy Justre sinne; 
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
Are mastered by the breathing haze; 
While neither mist, nor thickest clnud 
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, 
Hath power to injure mine. 

Out not I or this do I aspire 

To nii^tch the spark of local fire, 

'J'li.it at my will burns on the dewy lawn, 

With thy acknowledged glories; — No! 

V^et, thus upbraided, I may show 

What favors do attend me here, 

Till, like thyself, I disappear 

Before the purple dawn." 

When this in modest guise was said, 
Across the welkin seemed to spread 
^ boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! 
Hi'ls quaked, the rivers backward ran ; 
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan ; 



And reeled with visionary stir 
In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
Cast headlong to the pit I 

Fire raged ; and, when the spangled floor 

Of ancient ether was no more. 

New heavens succeeded by the drean 

brought forth : 
And all the happy Souls that rode 
Transfigured through that fresh abode 
Had heretofore, in humble trust. 
Shone meekly mid their native dust, 
The Glow-worms of the earth ! 

This knowledge, from an angel's voice 
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
Of Him who slept upon the open lea : 
Waking at morn he murmured not ; 
And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared. 
Where by that dream he had been cheered 
Beneath the shady tree. 
Ibi8. 



THE POET AND THE CAGED TUR 
TLEDOVE. 

As often as I murmur here 

My half-formed melodies, 
Straight from her osier mansion near, 

The Turtledove replies : 
Though silent as a leaf before. 

The captive promptly coos ; 
Is it to teach her own soft lore, 

Or second my weak Muse? 

I rather think, the gentle Dove 

Is murmuring a repn of, 
Displeased that I from lays of love 

Have dared to keep aloof ; 
That I, a Bard of hill and dale. 

Have caroll'd, fancy free. 
As if nc r dove nor nightingale, 

Had heart or voice for me. 

If such thy meaning, O forbear, 

Sweet bird ! to do me wrong ; 
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 

The spirit of my song : 
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 

Love animates my lyre — 
That coo again ! — 'tis not to chide« 

I feel, but to mspire. 
1830, 



POEMS OF 7 HE FANCY. 



55 



XXVII. 

A WREN'S NEST. 

Among the dwellings framed hv birds 
In htid or forest vvitii nice care, 

Is none tiiat with thr little Wren's 
In sniigness may compare. 

No door the tenement reciuires, 
And seldom needs a labored roof; 

"V'<-t IS It to th ■ fiercest sun 
impervioiib, and storm-proof. 

So warm, so lieatitiful withal, 

In perfect fitness for its aim, 
That to the Kind by special grace 

Their instinct surely came. 

And when for their abodes they seek 

An opportune recess, 
The hermit has no finer eye 

For shadowy ciuietness. 

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 

A canopy in jomc still nook ; 
Others are pent-housed by a brae 

That overhangs a brook. 

There to the brooding bird her mate 
Warbls by fits his low clear scjng ; 

And by the busy streamlet both 
Are sung to all day long. 

Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
Where, till the flitting bird's return, 

llcr eggs within the nest repose, 
Like relics in an urnr 

But still, where general choice is good, 

There is a better and a best ; 
And, among fairest objects, some 

Arj fairer than the rest ; 

This, one of those small builders proved 
In a green covert, where, from out 

The forehead of a pollard oak. 
The leafy antlers sprout ; 

For She who planned the mossy lodge, 

Mistrusting her evasive skill. 
Had to a Primrose looked for aid 

Her wishes to fulfil. 

High on the trunk's projecting brow, 
And fixed ni infant's span above 

The budding fiowers, peeped forth the nest, 
The prettiest of the grove '. 



rhe treasure proudly did I show 

i o some whose minds, without disdain 

Can turn to little things ; l)ut once 
Looked up for it .n vain . 

'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
W ho heeds not beauty, love, or song, 

'Tis gone ! (so seemed it; and we grieved 
Indignant at the wrong. 

Just three days after, passing by 
Jn clearer light, the moss-built cell 

i saw, espied its shaded mouth ; 
And felt that all was well. 

The Primrose for a veil had spread 
The largest of her upright leaves; 

And thus, for piup-oses benign, 
A simple flower deceives. 

Concealed from friends who might disturb 

Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
Secure from evil eyes and hands 

On barbarous plunder bent. 

Rest, l\Iother-bird ! and when thy young 
Take flight, and thou art free to loam, 

When withered is the guardian lM(;wer, 
And empty thy late home. 

Think how }^e prospered, thou and thine, 

Amid the un violated grove 
Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft 

In foresight, or in love. 



XXVIII 

LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 

You call it "Love lies bleeding,"- so you 

may, 
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only 

droops. 
As we have seen it liere from day to day, 
From month to month, life passing not 

away : 
A flower how rich in sadness ! Even thus 

stoops, 
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous 

power) 
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body 

bent 
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment 
The dying Gladiator. So sad l' lowei ! 
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be Icd^ 
Tliough by a slender thread.) 



156 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



So rlrociped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew 
0( liis dealh-vvouiul, when he from innocent 

air 
Thf i^entlcst l)reath of resi;;natinn dicw ; 
While Vcmis in a jiassion of dcsjiair 
Rent, wecpinc; over him, her golden hair 
bpanijlcd with drops of. that celestial 

shower. 
Slie suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; 
But panics more lasting far that Lover 

knew 
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some 

lone bower 
Hid press this semblance of unpitied smart 
Into the service of his constant heart. 
His own dejection, dowr.i .ist Flower ! could 

share 
With thine, and gave the mournful name 

which thou wilt ever bear. 



XXIX. 

COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. 

Never enlivened with the liveliest rav 

That fosters growth or checks or che:?rs 
decay. 

Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more de- 
prest. 

This Flower, that first appeared as sum- 
mer's guest. • 

Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves 

And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. 

When files of stateliest plants have ceased 
to bloom, 

One after one submitting to their doom, 

Wlu^n lier coevals each and all are fled. 

Wiiat keeps her thus reclined upon her 
lonesome bed ? 

The old mythologists, more impress'd 

than we 
Of this late day by character in tree 
Or herb, th.it claimed peculiar sympathy, 
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, 
Or with the language of the viewless air 
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause 
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws 
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand 

tales 
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. 
Nor doubt that something of their spirit 

swayed 
The fancy-stricken youth or heart-sick 

Maid, 



Who, while each stood companionless and 

eyed 
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, 
Thoug' t of a wound which death is slow to 

cm-e, 
A fate that has endured and will endure, 
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, 
Called the dejected Lingerer Love lia 

Heeding. 



RURAL ILLUSIONS. 

Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright 

Than those of fabulous stock ? 
A second darted by ; — and lo 1 

Another of the flock, 
Through sunshine flitting irom the bough 

To nestle in the rock. 
Transient deception ! a gay freak 

Of April's mimicries ! 
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 

Among '.'lie budding trees. 
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the 
sjn-ay 

To Irolic on the breeze. 

Maternal Flora 1 show thy face, 

And let thy hand be seen. 
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, 

That, as they touch the green, 
Take root (so seems it) and look up 

In lienor of their Q^uecn. 
Vet, sooth, those little starry specks, 

That not in vain aspired 
To be confounded with live growths, 

Most dainty, most admired. 
Were only blossoms dropjicd from twig8 

Of their own offspring tired. 

Not such the World's illusive shows ; 

Her wingless flutterings. 
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 

The floweret as it springs. 
For the undeceived, smile as they may, 

Are melancholy things: 
But gentle Nature plays her part 

With ever-varying wiles. 
And transient feignings with plain trutb 

So well she reconciles, 
That those fond Idlers most are pleased 

Whom oftenest she beguiles,. 



PORMS OF THE PA JVC V. 



tS7 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING 
LEAVES. 

That way \ook, my Infant, In! 

What a pretty baby-show ! 

i-ee the Kitten on the wall, 

J: porting with the leaves that fall, 

Withered leaves — one — two— and three- 

I'rom tlie lofty elder-tree ! 

Tiirough the calm and frosty air 

Of this morning bright and fair, 

Eddying round and round they sink 

iriol'tly, slowly ; one might think 

j mm the motions that are made, 

P.very little leaf conveyed 

i ylph or Fairy hither tending,— 

To tliis lower world descending, 

Each invisible and mute, 

In liis wavering parachute. 

lint the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and dartb ! 

First at one, and then its fellow 

] ust as light and just as yellow ; 

Tliere are many now — now one — 

Kow they stop and there are none: 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

W.th a tiger-leap half way 

Now she meets tiie coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again : 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer ; 

Ouick as he in feats of art. 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in the eye 

Of a thousand standers-by, 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 

Wiiat would little Tabby care 

r~or the plaudits of the cnnvd 1 

Over happy to be proud, 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

'Tis a pretty baby-treat ; 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
Other play-mate can I see. 
Of the countless living things, 
Tliat with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade. 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
And with busy revcllings. 
Chirp and song, and inurnmrings, 



Made tliis orchard's narrow space. 
And tills vale so blithe a place. 
Multitudes are swept away 
Never more to breathe the day : 
Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands ; 
Others slunk to moor and woorl. 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship. 
With us openly abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
Blu>cap, with his colors bright, 
Who was blest as bird could be, 
Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out ; 
Hung — head pointing towards the ground- 
Fluttered, jKnched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound: 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart and light of limb; 
What is now become of Him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains wen! 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime, 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill. 
It you listen, all is still, 
Save a little neighboring rill, 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 
Vainly glitter hill and ])lain, 
And the air is calm in vain ; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure; 
Cieature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy : 
Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near .'' 
Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety .? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Natur* 
Furnishes to every creature; 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show. 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Laura's face ; 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
I Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 



rsS 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



1'hat almost I could repine 
lliat your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thouj^htless pair ! 
And I will have my careless season 
Sj/ite of melancholy reason, 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 
Now and then 1 may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsoniLnessv 
— Pleased by any random toy ; 
By a kitten's busy joy. 
Or an infant's laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
I would fare like that or this. 
Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
Keep the sprightly %o\\\ awake, 
And have faculties to take, 
Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought, 
Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
J804. 



XXXII. 



ADDRESS TO MV INFANT DAUOTT- 
TERDORA, 

ON BEINH RfiMINDF-P THAT .SHE WAS A 
MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SHPrHMrEK 1 6, 

Hast thou then survived — 

Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
The most forlorn — one life of that bright 

star, 
The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou 

hast ; 
Already hast survived that great decay, 
That transformation through the wide earth 

felt. 
And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
From whom the Race of human kind pro- 
ceed, 
A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
But what is time .'' What outward glory ? 

neither 
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
Through " heaven's eternal year."— Yet h;iil 

to Thee, 
Frail, feeble, Monthling! — by that name, 

niethinks, 



Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth 
Couched on a casual 'oed of moss and leavt!^ 
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 
Or to the churlish elements exposed 
On the blank plains, — the coldness cf the 

night. 
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful fr.ce 
Ot beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
Would, with imperious admonition, then 
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
Thine infant history, on the minds ot those 
Who might have wandered with thee.— 

Mother's love. 
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, 
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly 

housed, 
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
Doth all too often harshly execute 
F(jr thy luiblest coevals, amid wilds 
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
The affections, to exalt them or refine; 
And the maternal sympathy itself. 
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours! 
Even now — to solemnize thy helpless state, 
And to enliven in the mind's regard 
Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect. 
Within the region of a father's thoughts. 
Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a 

world 
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered 

clouds, 
Moving untouched in silver purity, 
A nd cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
l''air are ye both, and both are free from 

stain : 
But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 
With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 
;\nd range about, disquieted in change. 
And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
Once up, once down the hill, one journov, 

Babe, 
That will suffice thee ; and it seems that 

now 
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is 

thine ; 
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
In such a heedless peace. Alas I full sooa 
Hath this conception, grateful to behold. 
Changed countenance, like an object sullied 

o'er 
By breathing mist ; and tliine appears to be 



FOE MS OF THE FANCY! 



'59 



A mournful labor, wliile to her is given 

Hope, and a renovation without end. 

— That smile forbids the thought; for on 

thy face 
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of 

dawn, 
To shoot and circulate ; smiles have there 

been seen ; 
CrHnquil assurances, that Heaven supports 
The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
Thy loneliness, or shall those smiles be 

called 



Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
'ill rough a strait passage intricate and dim* 
Such are they ; and the same are tokens, 

signs, 
Which, when the appointed season hath 

arrived, 
Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt ; 
And Reason's godlike Power be proud to 

own. 
1804. 



THE WAGONER. 

"In Cairo's crowded streets 
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, 
And Mecca saddens at the long delay." — Thomson 



TO CHARLES LAMB. ESQ. 
Mv Dkar Frienh, 

When I sent you, a tew weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked 
" wliy Thk Wa(.oner was not added '"—To say the truth, — from the higlier tone of imagina- 
tion, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little P.tte 
could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if 1 am not mistaken, Thh 
Wa(;onkk was read to yen in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, 
I am the more encouraged to hope that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends 
did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore 
111 some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of in- 
cribing it to you ; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and 
with the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, 
Kydal Mounts May zo, 1819. William WoRDSWOKTH. 



CANTO FIRST. 

' lis spent— this burning day of June 1 

Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is steal- 
ing , 

Th.; buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is 
wheeling,— 

That solitary bird 

Is all that can be heard 

In silence deeper far than that of deepest 
noon ! 

Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night 
Propitious to your earth-born light ! 
But, where the scattered stars are see 
In hazy straits the clouds between, 
Each, in his station twinkling not, 
Seems changed into a pallid spot. 
The mounJains against heaven's grave 
weight 



I Rise up, and grow to wondrous height 
The air, as in a lion's den, 

I Is close and hot ; — and now and then 
Comes a tired and sultry breeze 
With a haunting and a panting, 
Like the stifling of disease ; 
But the dews allay the heat. 
And the silence makes it sweet. 

Hush, there is some one on the stir I 
'Tis Benjamin the Wagoner ; 
Who long hath trod this toilsome way, 
j Companion of the night and day. 
I Tint far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, 
i Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound 
I In a moment lost and found, 
I The Wain announces — by whose side 
j Along the banks of Kydal Mere 
I He paces on, a trusty Guide,— 
' Listen! you can scarcely hearl 



i6c 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Hither he his course is bending ; — 
Now he leaves the lower ground, 
And up the craggy hill ascending 
Many a stop and" stay he makes, 
Many a breathing-fit he takes ;— 
Steep the way and wearisome, 
'/et all the while his whip is dumb ! 

The Horses have worked with right 
good-will, 
And so have gained the top of the hill ; 
He was patient, they were strong, 
And now they smoothly glide along, 
Kecovering breath, and pleased to win 
The praises of mild Benjamin. 
Heaven sliield him from mishap and snare ! 
But why so early witli tiiis prayer?— 
Is it for threatenings in the sky ? 
Or for some other danger nigh ? 
No ; none is near lum yet, though he 
he one of much infirmity ; 
For at the bottom of the brow. 
Where once the Dove and Olive-bough 
Offered a greeting of good ale 
'l"o a,ll who entered Grasmere Vale ; 
And called on him who must depart 
To leave it with a jovial heart ; 
'I'here, where the Dove and Olive-bough 
Once hung, a poet harbors now, 
A simple water-drinking Bard ; 
Why need our Hero then (though frail 
His best resolves) be on his guard ? 
He marches by, secure and bold ; 
Yet while he thinks on times of old. 
It seems that all looks wondrous cold ; 
He shrugs his shoulders, sliakes his head. 
And, for the honest folk within, 
It is a doubt with Benjamin 
Whether they be alive or dead ! 

Here is no danger, — none at all! 
Iieyond his wish he walks secure ; 
Fiut pass a mile — and then for trial, — 
Then for the pride of self-denial ; 
If lie resist that tempting door, 
Wiiich with such friendly voice will call ; 
II he resist those casement panes, 
'\iid that bright gleam which thence will 

fall 
Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, 
inviting him with cheerful lure: 
For still, though all be dark elsewhere. 
Some shining notice will be t/iere 
Of open house and ready fare. 

The place to Benjamin right well 
Is known, and by as strong a spell 



As used to be that sign of love 
And hope— the Olive-bough and Dove; 
He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
Who does not know the famous Swan ? 
Object uncouth! and yet our boast. 
For it was painted by the Host ; 
His own conceit the figure planned, 
'Twas colored all by his own hand . 
And that frail Child of thirsty clay, 
Of whom I sing this rustic lay. 
Could tell with self-dissatistaction 
Quaint stories of the bird's attraction ! 

Well ! that is past — and in despite 
Of open door and shining light. 
And now the conqueror essays 
'i'he long ascent of Dunmail-raise ; 
And with his team is gently here 
As when he clomb from Kydal Mere; 
11 is whip they do not dieacl — his voice 
Tliey only hear it to rejoifce. 
To stand or go is at iheir pleasure ; 
Th.eir efforts and their time they measure 
By generous pride within the breast ; 
And, while they strain, and while they rett 
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 

Now am I fairly safe to-night — 
And with proud cause my heart is light : 
I tresjjassed lately worse than ever — ■ 
Ikit Heaven has blest a good endeavor; 
And, to my soul's content, 1 find 
The evil One is left behind. 
Yes, let my master fume and fret^ 
Here am I — with my horses yet 
My jolly team, he finds that ye 
Will work for nobody but me ! 
Full proof of this the Country gained ; 
It knows how ye were vexed and strained, 
And forced unworthy stripes to bear, 
When trusted to another's care. 
Here was it — on this rugged slope. 
Which now ye climb with heart and hop«, 
I saw you, between rage and fear, 
Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, 
And ever more and more confused. 
As ye were more and more abused; 
As chance would have it, passing by 
1 saw you in that jeopardy : 
A word from me was like a charm ; 
Ye pulled together with one mind ; 
And your huge burthen, safe from harm, 
Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 
— Yes, without me, up hills so high 
'Tis vain to strive for mastery. 
Then grieve not, jolly team ! tliough tough 
The road we travel, steep, and rough; 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



i6i 



Tliough Rydal-lieights and Dunmail-raise, 
And ail their fellow banks and braes, 
Full often make you stretch and strain, 
And halt for breath and halt again, 
Yet to their stiirdiness 'tis owing 
That bide by side we still are going 1 

While Benjamin in earnest mood 
His meditations thus pursued, 
A storm, which had been smothered long, 
Was growing inwardly more strong ; 
And, in its struggles to get free. 
Was busily employed as he. 
The thunder had begun to growl — 
He heard not, too intent of soul ; 
The air was now without a breath-^ 
He marked not that 'twas still as death 
But soon large rain-drops on his head 
Fell with the weight of drojis of lead ;— 
He starts — and takes, at the admonition 
A sage survey of his condition. 
The road is black before his eyes, 
Glimmering faintly where it lies ; 
Black is the sky — and every hill, 
Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, 
Hung round and overhung with gloom ; 
Save that above a single height 
Is to be seen a lurid light. 
Above Helm-crag * — a streak half dead, 
A burning of portentous red ; 
And near that lurid light, full well 
The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, 
Where at his desk and book he sits, 
Puzzling aloft his curious wits ; 
He whose domain is held in common 
With no one but the ancient woman, 
Cowering beside her rifted cell, 
As if intent on magic spell ; — 
Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, 
Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! 

The Astrologer was not unseen 
By solitary Benjamin ; 
But total darkness came anon, 
And he and everything v/as gone : 
And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
(That would have rocked the sounding trees 
Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
Swept through the Hollow long and bare ; 
The rain rushed down — the road was bat- 
tered, 
As with the force of billows shattered ; 



The horses are dismayed, nor know 
Whether they shotdd stand or go ; 
And Henjamin is groping near them, 
Sees notiiing, and can scarcely hear tliem 
?{e is astounded, — wonder not, — 
With such a charge in such a spot ; 
Astounded in the mountain gap 
With thunder-peals, clap aft^r clap, 
Close-tre.iding on the silent flashes — 
And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes 
Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, 
And sullen motions long and slow. 
That to a dreary distance go — 
Till, b-caking in upon the dying strain, 
A rending o'er his head begins the frs 
again. 



ra) 



* A mountain of Grasinere, the broken sum- 
mit of which presents two fieures, full as 
distnictly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler, 
near Arroquhar, in Scotland. 



Meanwhile, uncertain what to do. 
And oftentimes compelled to halt. 
The horses cautiously pursue 
Their way, without mishap or fault; 
And now have reached that pile of stones, 
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones j 
He who had once supreme command, 
Last king of rocky Cumberland ; 
His bones, and those of all his Power, 
Slain here in a dis.istrous hour ! 

When, passing through this lar^.ovf 
strait. 
Stony, and dark, and desolate, 
Benjamin can faintly hear 
A voice that comes from some one near, 
A female voice: — " Whoe'er you be, 
Stop,'' it exclaimed, "and pity me!" 
And, less in pity than in wonder, 
Amid the darkness and the thunder. 
The Wagoner, with prompt command, 
Summons his liorses to a stand. 

While, with increasing agitation. 
The Woman urged her supplication, 
In rueful words, with sobs between — 
The voice of tears that fell unseen ; 
There came a flash — a startling glare, 
And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare ! 
'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, 
I And Benjamin, without a question, 
Taking iier for some way-worn rover, 
Said, " Mount, and get you under cover. ' 

Another voice, in tone StS hoarse 
As a swoln brook witV rugged course, 
Cried out, " Good broT'.er, v'ljv so fait 
I've had a glimpse of ,'ou — avast ! 
Or. since it suits yon to be civil. 
Take her at once —tor good and evilf '^ 



1 62 



POEMS OF THE FAXCY. 



" It IS my husband,'' softly said 
The Woman, as if half afraid : 
By this time she was snu^ within, 
Tiirough help of honest Benjamin ; 
She and her Babe, which to her breast 
With thankfulness the Mother pressed ; 
And now the same strong voice more near 
Said cordially, " My Friend, what cheer? 
Rough doings these ! as God's my judge, 
The sky owes somebody a grudge ! 
We've had in half an hour or less 
A twelvemonth's terror and distress ! " 

Then Benjamin entreats the Man 
Would mount, too, quickly as he can : 
The Sailor — Sailor now no more. 
But such he had been heretofore — 
'i'o courteous Benjamin replied, 
'• Co you your way, and mind not me ; 
For 1 must have, whatc'er betide. 
My Ass and fifty things beside, — 
Go, and I'll follow speedily ! " 

The Wagon moves— and witli its load 
Descends along the sloping road ; 
And the rough Sailor instantly 
'J'urns to a little tent hard by : 
For when, at closing-in of day, 
Tlie family had come that way. 
Green pasture and the soft warm air 
Temj)ted them to settle there. — 
Green ts the grass for beast to graze, 
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise 

The Sailor gathers up his bed. 
Takes down tlie canvas overhead ; 
And, after farewell to the place, 
A iiarting word — though not of grace, 
I'ursues, with Ass and all his store, 
The way the Wagon went before. 



CANTO SECOND. 

If Wythcburn's modest House of jiraycr 

As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, 

H<\d, with its belfry's humble stock, 

A I'ttle pair that hang in air. 

Been mistress also of a clock, 

i And one, too, not in crazy plight) 

Twelve strokes that clock would have been 

telling 
Under the brow of old Helvellyn- 
Its bead-roll of midnight. 
Then, when the Hero ot my tale 
Was passing by, and, down the vale 
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween 
As =f a storm had never been) 



Proceeding with a mind at ease ; 
While the old Familiar of the seas 
intent to use his utmost haste. 
Gained ground upon the Wagon fast. 
And gives another lusty cheer ; 
For spite of rumbling of tiie wiiecls, 
A welcome greeting he can hear; — 
It is a fiddle in its glee 
Dinning from the Cherry Tree I 

Thence the sor.nd — the light is there 
As Benjamin is now aware, 
Who, to his inward thoughts confined, 
Had almost reached the festive door, 
When, startled by the Sailor's roar. 
He hears a sound and sees the liglit, 
And in a moment calls to mind 
That 'tis the village Merky-Nigjit 1 * 

Although before in no dejection. 
At th's insidious recollection 
His heart with sudden joy is filled, — 
His ears are by the music thrilled. 
His eyes take pleasure in the road 
Glittering before h'm bright and broad ; 
And r>enjamin is wet and cold, 
And tiiere are reasons manifold 
That make the good tov/rds which he's 

yearning 
Look fairly like a lawful earning, 

Nor has thought time to come and go, 
To vibrate between yes and no ; 
r^or, cries the Sailor, " Glorious chance 
That blew us hither !— let him dance 
Who can or will ! — my honest soul, 
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" 
He draws him to the door — " Come i 
Come, come," cries he to Jknjamin ! 
And P.cnjamin — ah, woe is me ! 
Gave the word — the horses heard 
And halted, though reluctantly. 

" Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have 
we. 
Feasting at the Cherry Tree !" 
This was the outside proclamation. 
This was the inside salutation ; 
What bustling — jostling — high and low' 
A universal overflow ! 
Wliat tankards foaming from the tap ! 
What store of cakes in every lap ! 

* A term well-known in the North of Eng. 
land, and ajiplied to rural Festivals where 
young persons meet in the evening for the pur 
poss of dancing. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



1^3 



What thumping — stumping — overhead I 
Tlie thunder had not been more busy : 
vVith sucli a stir you would have said, 
'I'his little place may well be dizzy ! 
'Tis who can dance with greatest vigor — 
' Tis what can be most prompt and eager ; 
As if it heard the fiddle's rail, 
The pewter clatters on the wall ; 
'I'he very bacon shows its feeling, 
Swinging from the smoky ceilng ! 

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, 
VViiat greater good can heart desire ? 
'Twere worth a wise man's while to try 
The utmost anger of the sky : 
To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, 
If such the bright amends at last. 
Now slunild you say 1 judge amiss, 
Tiic Cherry Tri:il shows ]>roof of this; 
For soon of all the happy there. 
Our Travellers are tlie happiest pair • 
All care with Uenjamin is gone — 
A Cicsarpast the Rubicon ! 
lie thinks not of his long, long, strife ;— 
The Sailor, Man by nature ga\', 
Hath no resolves to throw away; 
And he hath now forgot his Wife, 
Hath quite forgotten licr — or may be 
Thinks her the luckiest soul on cartli, 
Witiiin that warm and peaceful berth, 

Under cover, 

Terror over, 
Sleeping by her sleeping baby. 

With bowl that spread from hand to hand^ 
The gladdest of the rladsome band, 
Amid their own delight and fun, 
They hear — when every dance is done, 
When every whirling bout is o'er — 
The fiddle's squeak* — that call to bliss, 
Ever followed by a kiss ; 
They envy not the happy lot, 
But enjoy their own the more ! 

While thus our jocund Travellers fare, 
Up springs the Sailor from his chair — 
Limps (for I might have told before 
That he was lame) across the floor 
Is gone — returns — and with a prize 
With what? — a Ship of lusty size; 
A gallant stately Man-of-war, 
Fixed on a snpothly-sliding car. 



• At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a 
oarticular note from the firldle summons the 
kustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his 
IMirtnfti. 



Surprise tf) all, but most surprise 
To IJcnjamin, who rubs liis eyes. 
Not knowing that he had belricnded 
A man so gloriously attended 1 

" This," cries the Sailor, *' a Third rato 

is — 
Stand back, and yf u shall see her gratis ! 
This was the Flag-shii> at the Nile, 
The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile. 
But, pretty Maid, if you look near. 
You'll find you've much in little here ! 
A nobler ship did never swim. 
And you shall see her in full trim: 
I'll set, my friends, to do you honor, 
Set every inch of sail upon her." 
So said, so done ; and masts, sails, yards, 
He names them all ; and interlards 
His speech with uncouth terms of art, 
Accomplished in the showman's part ; 
And then, as from a sudden check. 
Cries out — " 'Tis there, the quarter-deck 
(Jn which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
A sight that would have roused your bloodi 
One eye he had, which, bright as ten, 
Burned like a fire among his men ; 
Let this be land, and that be sea. 
Here lay the French — and thus came we ! " 

Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, 
The dancers all were gathered round. 
And. such the stillness of the house, 
You might have heard a nibbling mouse ; 
While, borrowing helps where'er he may, 
The Sailor through the story runs 
Of ships to ships and guns to guns ; 
And docs his utmost to display 
The dismal conflict, and the might 
And terror of that marvellous night ! 
" A bowl, a ho\\\ of double measure," 
Cries Bonjaniin, "a draught of length. 
To Nelson, England's pride and trcastir«u 
Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! ^ 
When Benjamin had seized the bowl. 
The mastiff, from beneath the wagon, 
Where he lay, watchful as a dragon. 
Rattled his chain ; — 'twas all in vain, 
For Benj,:niin, triumphant soul ! 
He heard the monitory growl ; 
Heard — and in opposition quaffed 
A deep, determined, desperate draught I 
Nor did the battered Tar forget. 
Or flinch from w'hat he deemed his debt: 
Then, like a hero crowned with Uurel, 
Back to her place the ship he led; 
Wheeled lier back in full apparel; 
And so, flag flying at mast head. 



164 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Rc-yokod her to the Ass :—anon, 
fries Benjamin, " We must be gone." 
Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, 
Again behold them on theii way 1 



CANTO THIRD. 

KiGHT gladly had the horses stirred, 
Wiien they the wished-for greeting heard, 
Tiie whip's loud notice from tlie door 
'I'll, it tliey were free to move once more. 
\ o'.i think, those doings nuist have bred 
In them disheartening doubts and dread; 
No, not a horse of all the eight, 
Although it be a moonless night, 
Fc.us cither for himself or freight ; 
l"or this they know (and let it hide, 
\w part, the offences of their guide) 
That Benjamin, with clouded brains. 
Is worth the best with all their pains ; 
And, if they had a prayer to make. 
The prayer would be that they may take 
With him whatever conies in course, 
The better fortune or the worse ; 
'I'hat no one else may have business near 

tlicm. 
And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. 

So, forth in dauntle.ss mood they fare, 
And with them goes the guardian pair. 

Now, heroes, for the true commotion, 
The triumph of your late devotion I 
Can auc^ht on earth impede delight, 
Still movinting to a higher height ; 
And higher still — a greedy flight ! 
Can any low-born care pursue her, 
Can any mortal clog come to her ? 
No notion have they— not a thought. 
That is from joyless regions brouglit ! 
And, while they coast the silent lake, 
Their inspiration I partake ; 
Share their empyreal spirits — yea, 
With their enraptured vision, see — 
fancy — what a jubilee! 
What shifting pictures— clad in gleams 
Of color bright as feverish dreams ! 
Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, 
involved and restless all — a scene 
pregnant with mutual exaltation. 
Rich change, and multiplied creation ! 
This sight to me the Muse imparts ; — 
.^nd then, what kindness in tiieir hearts! 
What tears of rar.ture, what vow-making. 
Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking ! 
kVhat solemn, vacant, interlacing, 



As if they'd fall asleep embracing ! 
Then, in the turbulence of glee, 
And in the excess of amity, 
Says Benjamin, " That Ass of thine, 
He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: 
If he were tethered to the wagon, 
He'd drag as well what he is dragging; 
And we, as brother should with brother, 
Might trudge it alongside each other '" 

Forthwith, obedient to command, 
The horses made a quiet stand ; 
And to the wagon's skirts was tied 
The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, 
The Mastiff wondering, and perplext 
With dread of v/hat will happen next ; 
And thinking it but sorry cheer, 
To have such company so near ! 

This new arrangement made, the Wain 
Through the still night proceeds aga h ; 
No Moon hath risjn her light to lend ; 
But indistinctly may be kenned 
The Vv\NGUARD, following close b'^hind, 
Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! 

" Thy wife and child are snug and warm, 
Thy ship will travel w.thout harm ; 

^ like," said Benjamin, " her shape and 
stature : 

And this of mine — this bulky creature 

Of which I have the steering — this. 

Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! 

We want your streamers, friend, you know; 

J'ut, altogether as we go, 

We make a kind of handsome show ! 

Among these hills, from first to last. 

We've weathered many a furious blast ; 

Hard passage forcing on, with head 

Against the storm, and canvas spread. 

1 hate a boaster ; but to thee 

Will say't, who know'st both land and sea, 

The unluckiest hulk that stems the br'.nc 

Is hardly worse beset than mine. 

When cross-winds on her quarter beat ; 

And, fairly lifted from my feet, 

1 stagger onward — heaven knows how 

But not so pleasantly as now . 

Poor pilot I, by snows confounded ! 

And many a foundrous pit surrounded! 

Yet here we are, by night and day 

Grinding through rough and smooth our 
way ; • 

Through foul and fair our task fulfilhng ; 

And long shall be so yet — God willing ! " 
"Av," said the Tar, '' through fair anj 
foul- 
But save us from on screeching owl I " 



POEMS OF THE FAA'CY. 



•55 



That instant was beG;iin a fray 
Wliich called their -thoughts another way : 
The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl! 
Wliat nuist he do but ^ruwl aixl snarl, 
Still more and more dissatisfied 
With the meek comrade at his side ! 
Till, not incensed though put to proof, 
Th;2 Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, 
Salutes tlie Mastiff on tlic head ; 
And so were better manners bred, 
And all was calmed and quieted. 

" Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turn- 
ing 
Back to his former cause of mourning, 
" Yon owl !— pray God that all be well ! 
'Tis worse than any funeral bell ; 
As sure as I've the gift of siglit, 
We shall be meeting ghosts to-night ! " 
— Said Uenjamin, "Thiswliip sliall lay 
A tliousand, if they cross our way. 
1 know tliat Wanton's noisy station, 
I know him and his occupation ; 
'J'he jolly bird has learned his cheer 
U.i(*n the banks of Windermere ; 
Where a tribe of them make merry, 
Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; 
llallooing from an open throat, 
Like travellers shouting f(jr a boat. 
—Tlie tricks he learned at Windermere 
This vagrant owl is playing here — 
That is the worst of his employment ; 
He's at the top of his enjoyment^ " 

This explanation stilled the alarm, 
Cured the foreboder like a charm ; 
This, and the manner, and the voice. 
Summoned the Sailor to rejoice ; 
f lis heart is up — he fears no evil 
From life or death, from man or devil ; 
He wheels — and, making many stops, 
J'.randished his crutch against the mountain 

tops ; 
And, while he talked of blows and scars, 
Benjamin, among the stars, 
Beheld a dancing— and a glancing ; 
Such retreating and advancing 
As, I ween, was never seen 
In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 



CANTO FOURTH. 

I HUS they, with freaks of proud delight, 
Beguile the remnant <;*■ the night ; 
And many a snatch of jovial song 
Regales them as they wind a'ong ; 



W'i'le to the music, from on high, 
Tiie echoes make a '.lad reply. — 
But the sage Muse uie revel heeds 
No farther than her story needs.; 
Nor will she servilely attend 
The loitering journey to its end. 

— r>lithc spirits of her own impel 

The Muse, who scents the mcrning air, 
To take of this transported pair 
A brief and unreproved farewell ; 
To quit the slow-paced wagon's side, 
And wander down yon hawthorn dell, 
With muriiuiring Greta for her guide. 
— There doth she ken the awful form 
Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — 
Glimmering through the twilight pale; 
.And C^himmer-crag,* his tall twin brother, 
ICacli peering forth to meet the other: — 
And, while she roves through St. John's 

Vale, 
Along the smooth unpathwayed plain. 
By sheep-track or through cottage lane. 
Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
Upon the pensive solitude. 
Her unsuspecting eye, perchance. 
With the rude sheplicrd's fuvored glance, 
Beholds the fairies in array, 
Wiiose party-colored garments gay 
Tlie silent company betray • 
Reil, green, and blue; a moment's sigh. 
For Skidilaw-top with rosy liglit 
Is t. inched — and all the band take flight. 

— Fly also, Muse ! and from the dell 
Mount to the ridge of Nathdale I'^ll ; 

Til iice, look thou forth o'er wood and 

hwn 
Hoar wit 11 the frost-like dews of dawn ; 
Across yon meadowy bottom look, 
Wiiere close fogs hide their parent brook ; 
And see, beyond that hamlet small, 
T!ie ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, 
Lurking in a double shade, 
Bv trees and lingering twilight made! 
There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
.Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
To noble Clifford ; from annoy 
Concealed the persecuted boy, 
Weil pleased in rustic garb to feed 
His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reei 
Among this multitude of hills. 
Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills ; 
Which soon the morning shall enfold, 
From east to west, in ample vest 
Of massy gloom and radiance bold. 



'* Tlic crag oi tlic ewe lamb. 



166 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed 
Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; 
Even while 1 speak, their skirts of gray 
Are smitten by a silver ray ; 
/".nd lo ! — up Castrigg's naked steep 
(Where, smoothly urged, the vapors sweep 
A lung— and scatter and divide, 
J, ike fleecy clouds self-multiplied) 
The stately wagon is ascending, 
With faithful iienjamin attending, 
Apparent now beside his team — 
Now lost amid a glittering steam : 
And with him goes his Sailor-friend, 
By this time near their journey's end ; 
And, after their high-minded riot. 
Sickening into thoughtful quiet ; 
As if the morning's pleasant hour, 
Had for their joys a killing power. 
And, sooth, for IJenjamin a vein 
Is opened of still deeper pain. 
As if his heart by notes were stung 
From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; 
As if the warbler lost in light 
Reproved his soarings of the night, 
In strains of rapture pure and holy 
Upbraided his distempered folly. 

Drooping is he, his step is dull ; 
But the horses stretch and pull ; 
With increasing vigor climb. 
Eager to repair lost time ; 
Whether, by their own desert, 
Knowing what cause there is for shame, 
They are laboring to avert 
As much as may be of the blame, 
Wiiicli, they foresee, must soon alight 
Upon his head, whom, in despite 
Of all his failings, they love best ; 
Whether for him they are distrest, 
Or, by length of fasting roused. 
Are impatient to be housed : 
Up against the hill they strain 
Tugging at the iron chain. 
Tugging all with might and main, 
Last and foremost, every horse 
To tlie utmost of his force ! 
And the smoke and respiration, 
Rising like an exhalation. 
Blend with the mist — a moving shroud 
To form, an undissolving cloud ; 
Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
Takes delight to play upon. 
Never golden-haired Apollo, 
Pleased some favorite chief to follow 
Through accidents of peace or war, 
In a perilous moment threw 
Around the object of his care 



Veil of such celestial hue ; 
Interposed so bright a sc^en 
Him and his enemies between I 

Alas ! what boots it ? — who can hide, 
When the malicious Fates are bent 
On working out an ill intent t 
Can destiny be turned aside.'' 
No — sad progress of my story ! 
Benjamm, this outward glory 
Cannot sh.ield thee from thy Master, 
Who from Keswick has pricked forth, 
Sour and surly as the north ; 
And, in fear of some disaster, 
Comes to give what help he may, 
And to hear what thou canst say ; 
If, as needs he must forbode, 
Tliou hast been loitering on the road I 
His fears, his doubts, may now tak* 

flight^- 
The wished-for object is in sight : 
Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath 
Stirred him up to livelier wrath ; 
Which he stifles, moody man ! 
With all the patience that he can ; 
To the end that, at your meeting, 
He may give thee decent greeting. 

There he is — resolved to stop, 
Till the wagon gains the top ; 
But stop he cannot — must advance: 
Him Benjamin, with lucky glance. 
Espies — and instantly is ready. 
Self-collected, poised, and steady: 
And, to be the better seen. 
Issues from his radiant shroud, 
From his close-attending cloud. 
With careless air and open mien. 
Erect his port, and firm his going ; 
So struts yon cock that now is crowing j 
And the morning light in grace 
Strikes upon his lifted face, 
Hurrying the pallid hue away 
That might his trespasses betray. 
But what can all avail to clear him, 
Or what need of explanation, 
Parley or interrogation ? 
For the Master sees, alas ! 
That unhappy Figure near him, 
Limping o'er the dewy grass. 
Where the road it fringes, sweet, 
Soft and cool to way-worn feet ; 
And, O indignity ! an Ass, 
By his noble Mastiff's side, 
Tethered to the wagon's tail : 
And the ship, in all her pride, 
Following after in full sail I 



1 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



167 



Not to speak of babe and mother ; 

Who, contented with each other, 
And snug as birds in leafy arbor. 
Find, within, a blessed harbor ! 

With eager eyes the Master pries : 
Looks in and out, and through and 

through ; 
Says nothing — till at last he spies 
A wound upon the Mastiff's head, 
A wound, where plainly might be read 
What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! 
Hut drop the rest : — this aggravation, 
i his complicated provdcation, 
A hoard ut grievances unsealed ; 
All past forgiveness it repealed ; 
And thus, and through distempered blood 
On both sides, Benjamin the good, 
The patient, and the tendei-iiearted, 
Was from his team and wagon parted ; 
When duty of that day was o'er, 
Laid down his whip— and served no more. 
Nor could the wagon long survive, 
Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : 
]t lingered on ; — guide after guide 
Ambitiously the ofhce tried ; 
But each unmanageable hill" 
Called tor his patience and his skill ; 
And sure it is. that through this night, 
And what the morning brought to light. 
Two losses had we tn sustain 
We lost both Wagoner and Wain ! 



Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, 

The gift of this adventurous song ; 

A recnrd which 1 dared to frame. 

Though timid scruples checked me long ; 

They checked me — and I left the theme 

Untouched ; — in spite of many a gleam 

Of fancy which thereon was shed, 

Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still 

Upon the side of a distant hill : 

But Nature might not be gainsaid ; 

For what I have and what I mis? 

I sing of these ; — it makes my bliss : 

Nor is it I who play the part. 

But a shy spirit in my heart, 

That comes and goes — will sometimes leap 

From hiding-places ten years deep ; 

Or haunts me with familiar face, 

Returning, like a ghost unlaid, 

Until the debt I owe be paid. 

Forgive me, then : for I had been 

On friendly terms with this Machine : 



In him, while he was wont to trace 

Our roads, through many a !ong year's 

space, 
A living almanac had we ; 
We had a speaking diary, 
That in this uneventful place, 
(Jave to the days a mark and name 
By which we knew them when they came. 
— Vcs, 1, and all about me here, 
Througn all the changes of the year. 
Mad seen him through the mountains go, 
In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
Majestically huge and slow : 
Or, with a milder grace adorning 
The landscape of a summer's morning ; 
While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain 
The moving image to detain ; 
And mighty Fairfield, with a chime 
Of echoes, to his march kept time ; 
Wlien little other business stirred, 
Aiid little other sound was heard ; 
In that delicious hour of balm. 
Stillness, solitude and calm, 
While yet the valley is arrayed, 
On this side with a sober shade; 
On tliat is prodigally bright — 
Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosv lifjht. 
— But most of all, thou lordly Wain! 
I wish to have thee here ac^ain, 
When windows flap and chimney roars. 
And all is dismal out of doors ; 
And, sitting by my fire, I see 
Eight sorry carts, no less a train ! 
Unworthy successors of thee. 
Come straggling through the wind and "^a 
And oft, as they pass slowly on, 
Beneath my windows, one by one. 
See, perched upon the naked height 
The summit of a cumbrous freight, 
A single traveller — and there 
Another ; then perhaps a pair — 
The lame, the sickly, and the old : 
Men, women, heartless with the cold ; 
And babes in wet and starveling plight 
Which once, be weather as it might. 
Had still a nest within a nest, 
Thy shelter — and their mother's breast, 
Then most of all, then far the nost. 
Do 1 regret what we have lost ; 
Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
Which robjed us of good Benjamin ; — 
And of his stately Charge, which none 
Could keep alive when He was gone! 
1805 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



I. 

THERE WAS A BOY. 

There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander !— many a time, 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
And tliere, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 

m.outh 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
That they might answer him.— And they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call, with quivering 

peals, ' 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes 

loud 
Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
Of jocund din ! And, when there came a 

pause 
Of silence such as baffled his best skill : 
Then, j,ometn-nes, m that silence, while he 

hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
^ts woods, and that uncertain heaven re- 
ceived 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and 
died 

in childhood, ere he v/as full twelve y?ars 
old. 

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 

Where he was born and bred : the church- 
yard hangs 

Upon a slope above the village 3chool ; 

And, through that church-yard when my way 
has led 



On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
A long half-hour together 1 have stood 
Mute— looking at the grave in which he liefi 
1799. 

♦ 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo ! shall 1 call thee Bird, : 
Or put a wandering Voice ? ^. 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold i-hout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though bubbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring i 

Even yet thou a'-t to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery . 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; ^ 
And thou wert still r, hope, a love;"^) 
Still lonsred for, never seen. 



And I can listen to thee yet : 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth wc past 
Again nppears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place: 
That is fit home for Thee 1 
1804. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



16^ 



III. 
A NIGHT-PIECE. 



The sky is overca?'; 

With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
Which tlirough that veil is indistinctly seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
Checkering tlie ground — from rock, plant, 

tree, or tower. 
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller wiiile he treads 
Hi'i lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
iJent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds 

are split 
Asunder. — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory o^*" the 

heavens. 
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along. 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel 

away, 
Tet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 
r>ut they are silent ; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault, 
Jiuilt round by those white clouds, enormous 

clouds. 
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, 
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
Which slowly settles mto peaceful calm, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
1798. 



Of yon dim cave, in seemmg silence makes 
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs 
Powerful almost as vocal harmony, 
To stay tiie wanderer's steps and soothe liis 
thoughts. 



V, 



YEW-TREES, 



AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. 

Not a breath of air 

Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. 
From the brook's margin, wide around, the 

trees 
Are steadfast as the rocks ; the brook itself, 
Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm 
Where all things else are still and motion- 
less. 
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance 
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage 

without, 
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 
But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
Is the light ash I that, pendent from the 
brow 



There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
W' hich to this day stands single, in the midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
Not loth to furnish weapons for the hands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed 

the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
Of form and aspect too magnificent 
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
Are those fraternal F'our of Borrowdale, 
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; 
Huge trunks I and each particular trunk a 

growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and lo(/ks 
That threaten the profane: — a pillared 

shade. 
Upon whose grasslcss floor of red-brown 

hue. 
By sheddings from the pining umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked 
With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling 

Hope, 
Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 
And Time the Shadow ; — there 10 celebrate, 
As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
With altars undisturbed of mossy ston=>, 
United worship ; or in mute repose 
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost Ciive% 
1S03. 



lyo 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATION, 



VI. 

NUTTING. 

It seems a day 

(I speak of one from many singled out), 
One of those heavenly days that caimot die, 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
Witli a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my 

step 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 

quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-of? 

weeds, 
Which for that service I. ad been husbanded. 
By exhortation of my frugal Dr. me — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smil2 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, 

ill truth. 
More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless 

rocks. 
Through beds of matted fern and tangled 

thickets. 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious 

sign 
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
A virgin scene! — A little wliile I stood. 
Breathing witli such suppression of the 

heart 
As joy delights in ; and, witli wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
'I'he banquet ;^<)r beneatli tlie trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers 1 

played ; 
A temper Known to those who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
Witii sudden happiness beyond all liope. 
I'eiiiaps it was a bower beneath wliose 

leaves 
'J'lie violets of five seasons re-appear 
Anl fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
Wliere fairy water-ljreaks do murmur on 
Forever ; and 1 saw the sparkling foam. 
And— with my cheek on one of those green 

stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady 

trees, 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock ol 

sheep — 
I heard tiie murmur and the murmuring 

sound. 
In tliat sweet mood when pleasure loves to 

pay 



Tribute to ease ; and, cf its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent tliingL-, 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on tlie vacant air. Then up 1 rose. 
And dragged to earth both branch and 

bough, with crash 
And merciless ravage : and the shady noci 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave i:p 
Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
Exulting, rich beyond the weaUh of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding 

sky. — 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; w'.th gentle hand 
Toucli — for tlierc is a spirit in the woods. 
1799. 



VII. 



THE SIMPLON PASS. 



r.ROOK and road 



Were fellow-travcHers in tiiis gloomy Pass, 
And witli them did we journey several houri 
At a slow step. Tlie immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
Tlie stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
And in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and for- 
lorn. 
The torrents shooting from the clear blue 

sky. 
The rocks that muttered close upon our 

cars, 
lilack drizzling crags that spake by th.e 

wayside 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sighV 
A-ui giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
'J'lie unfettered clouds and region of the 

heavens, 
Tunuilt and peace, the darkness and t'le 

light- 
Were all like workings (if one mind, the 

features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
C'hara&ters of the great Ajiocalypse, 
The types and svmbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without 

end. 
1799. 



POEM'S OF TFTE IMAGINATTO!^. 



171 



VIII. 

She was a Fliantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
l^ut all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt', to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-lil-)erty ; 

A countenance in wliicli did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eyes serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
Witii something of angelic light. 
1840. 



IX. 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 
A creature of a " fiery heart : " — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 

Tumultuous harmony and fierce I 

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 

A song in mockery and despite 

Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 

Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day ; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 

He did not cease; but cooed — and cooed; 
And somewhat pensively he wooed ; 
He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
Slow to begin, and never ending ; 



Of serious faith, and inward glee : 
That was the song — the song for me ! 
1806. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower 

Then Nature said, " A lovelrer tluvver 
On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and 1 will make 
A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, ^ 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the l.avn 
Or up the mountain springs , 
And hers shall be the breathin'j l>.'m, 
And hers the silence and llie calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state slndl K iid 

To her ; for her the willow bend . 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's .""oinn 

By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret jilace 

Where rivulets dance their wavward round. 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell " 

Thus Nature spake— The work was done ■> 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has bean, 

And never more will be. 
1799. 



172 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
799- 



XII. 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills^ 
When ail at once J saw a crowd, 
'A host of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Cfmtinuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched m never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay •. 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company : 

1 gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch 1 lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eyeN 
Which is the bliss of solitude; -^ 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And (lances with the daffodils, 
iiio4. 



XIII. 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when day- 
light appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung 
for three years : 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has 
heard 

In the silence of morning the song of the 
Bird. 



'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? 

She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees : 
Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury 

glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale r-t 

Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst ol 

tlie dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with 

her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a 

dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she 

loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven ; but 

they fade. 
The mist and the river, the hill and the 

shade 
The stream will not flow, and the lull will 

not rise, 
And the colors have all passed away frora 

her eyes ! 
1797. 



XIV. 

POWER OF MUSIC. 

An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faitli may 
grow bold. 

And take to herself all the wonders of 
old ;— 

Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with 
the same 

In the street that from Oxford hath bor- 
rowed its name. 

Ilis station is there ; and he works on the 

crowd, 
He sways them with harmony merry and 

loud ; 
He fills with his power all their hearts to 

tlie brim — 
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and 

him ? 

What an eager assembly ! what an empire 

is this! 
The weary have life, and the hungry have 

bliss : 
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious 

have rest ; 
And the gilt-burthened soul is no longer 

opprest. 



rOEMS OF THE /MAC /NAT/ ON. 



173 



As the Moon brightens round her the clouds 

of the night, 
So He, where lie stands, is a centre of hght. 
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed 

Jack, 
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket 

on back. 

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in 

haste — 
What matter ! he's caught — and his time 

runs to waste ; 
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops 

on the fret ; 
And the half-breathless Lamplighter — he's 

in the net ! 

The Porter sits down on the weight which 

he bore ; 
The Lass with her barrow wheels b.ither her 

stiirc ; — 
If a'thicf could be here he might pilfer at 

case , 
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! 

He stands, backed by the wall ; — he abates 

not his din , 
His hat gives h.im vigor, with boons drop- 

pmg in. 
From the old and the young, from the 

poorest , and there ! 
The onc-pennied Boy has his penny to 

spare. 

blest are the hearers, and proud be the 

hand 
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thank- 
ful a band ; [while 

1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the 
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise 

with a smile. 

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in 

height, 
■Kot an^ inch of his body is free from de- 
light ; 
Can he kecj-i himself still, if he would ? oh, 

not ho ! 
The nuisic stirs in him like wind through a 

tree. 
Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; 

like a tower 
That long has leaned forward, leans hour 

after hour ! — 
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is 

bound, 
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to 

the sound. 



Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a 

stream ; 
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a 

dream , 
They are deaf to your murmurs — they can 

not for you, 
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye puTi 

sue ! 
1806. 



XV. 

STAR-GAZERS. 

What crowd is this? what have we here! 

we must not pass it by ; 
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to 

the sky : 
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of 

"little boat. 
Some little pleasure-skiff, that dolh on 

Thames' s waters float. 

The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis 

Leicester's busy Square ; 
And is as hapjiy in his night, for the 

heavens are blue and fair ; 
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd ; each 

stands ready with the fee. 
And envies him that's looking : — what an 

insight must it be ! 

Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? 
Shall thy implement have blame, 

A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is 
put to shame ? 

Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes 
in fault ? 

Their eyes, or minds or. finally, is yon re- 
splendent vault i 

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as 

we have here ? 
Or gives a thing but small delight that never 

can be dear ? 
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills 

of mightiest fame. 
Doth she betray us when they're seen? or 

are they but a name ? 
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and 

strong, 
And bounty never yields so much but it 

8eems to do her wrong ? 
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey 

long have had 
And are returned into themselves, they can- 
not but be sad? 



*74 



POEMS OF 7 HE IMAGINATION: 



Or must we be constrained to think that 

these Spectators rude, 
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the 

multitude, 
Have souls which never yet have risen, and 

therefore prostrate lie ? 
No, no, this cannot be ; — men thirst for 

power and majesty ! 

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the 

blissful mind employ 
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave 

and steady joy, 
That doth reject all show of pride, admits 

no outward sign. 
Because not of this noisy world, but silent 

and divine ! 

Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they 
who pry and pore 

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less 
happy than before : 

One after One they take their turn, nor 
have I one espied 

That doth not slackly go away, as if dissat- 
isfied 
1806. 



WRITTEN IN MARCH, 

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT 
THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. 

The cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter. 

The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing. 

Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like caie ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated. 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — 
anon : 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing. 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The/ain is over and gone ! 
iSoi. ■ 



Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic 
live 
As might from India's farthest plain 
Recall the not unwilling Maid, 
Assist me to detain 
The lovely Fugitive: 
Check with thy notes the impulse which, 

betrayed 
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.. 
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, 
'i"he impregnable and awe-inspiring fort 
Of contemplation, the calm port 
By reason fenced from winds that sigh 
Among the restless sails of vanity. 
But if no wish be hers that we should part, 
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. 

Where all things are so fair, 
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air 

Of tins Elysian weather. 
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 
Shade upon the sunshine lying 

Faint and somewhat pensively : 
And downward Image gayly vying 
With its upright living tree 
Mid silver clouds, and openings. of blue sky 
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. 

Nor less the joy with many a glance 

Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeclv 

To marks its eddying foam-balls prettily 

distrest 
By ever-changing shape and want of rest ; 
Or watch, with mutual teaching, 
The current as it plays 
In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps 
Adown a rocky maze ; 
Or note (translucent summer's happiest 

chance ! ) 
In the slope-channel floored with pebbles 

bright, 
Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 
So vivid that they take from keenest siglU 
The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 



XVIII. 

BEGGARS. 



She had a tall man's height or more; 
Her face from summer's noontide heat 
No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
A mantle, to her very feet 
Descending with a graceful flow. 
And on her head a cap as white as new 
fallen snow. 



rOLMS UF THE IMAGIXATIOX. 



175 



Her skin was of Egyptian brown 
Haughty, as if Iier eye had seen 
Its own light to a distance thrown, 
She towered, fit person for a Oueen 
To lead those ancient Amazonian files; 
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the (Jrecian 
isles. 

Advancing, forth she stretched her ha 
And begged an alms with doleful plea 
Tliat ceased not ; on our English land 
Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 
And yet a Loon I gave her. for the crjature 
Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious 
feature. 

I left her, and pursued my way ; 
And soon before me did espy 
A i^air of little Coys at play, 
Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 
The taller followed vv'ith his hat in hand, 
Wreathed round witli yellow flowers the 
gayest of the land. 

The other wore a rimless crown 
With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 
And, while both followed up and down, 
Each whooping with a merry shout, 
In their fraternal features 1 could trace 
Unquestionab'e lines of that wild Suppliant's 
face. 

Vet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 

For finest ta^ks ( f earth < r a'r : 

Wings let them have, and they might flit 

Precursors to Aurora's car. 

Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, 

I v^e^n, 
hunt the 

level green. 

They dart across my path— but lo, 

Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 

Said 1, " not half an hour ago 

Your Mother lias had alms of mine." 

" That cannot be,"' one answered — " she is 

dead : " — 
Hooked reproof — Laey saw — but neither 
I hung his head. 

** She has been dead, Sir, many a day." — 
" Hush, boys ! you're telling me a lie ; 
It was your Mother, as I say ! ' 
And m tlie twinkling of an eye, 
1 "Come! come!" cried one, and without 

more ado, 
Off to some other play the jjvous Vagrants 
flew! 

lS02. 



SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, 

COMI'OSEU MANY YE.NKS ATTtR. 

Where are they now, those wanton Boys? 

For whose free range the daedal earth 

Was filled with animated toys, 

And uiiplcments of frolic mirth ; 

With tools for leady wit to guide ; 

And ornaments of seemlier jiride. 

More fresh, more bright, than princes wear ; 

For what one moment flung aside 

Another could repair ; 

What good or evil have they seen 

Since I their pastime witnessed here, 

Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer ? 

I ask — but all is dark between ! 

They met me in a genial hour, 
When universal nature breathed 
As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
.A time to overrule the jwwcr 
Of discontent, and check tlie birth 
Of tlioughts with better thoughts at strife, 
The most familiar bane of life 
Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
Mortality to Earth ! 
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year. 
Sailed through tlie sky — the brooks ran cle^r ; 
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 
With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
\nd to my heart are still endeared 
The thoughts with which it then was cheered , 
The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
Walk through t!ic fire with unsinged hair. 
Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 
Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 
Associates in that eager chase ; 
Ye, wlio within the blameless mind 
Your favorite seat of empire find — 
Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
That tiiey, so happy and so fair 
Through your sweet influence, and the rare 
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
From touch of deadly injury ? 
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
For mercy and immortal bloom ! 



XX. 

GIPSIES. 

Yet are they here the same imbrckcn knot 
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
Men, women, childn n, yea the frame 
Of the whole spectacle the same I 



ryo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Only their fire seems bolder, yielding liglit, 
Now deep and red, the colornig of niglit, 
That on tlieir Gipsy-faces falls, 
Tlieir bed of straw and blanket-walls. 
—Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are 

gone, while I 
Have Ijeen a traveller under open sky, 

Much witnessing of change and cheer, 
Yet as i left I find them here ! 
The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; — 
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, 
Outshining like a visible God 
I'he glorious path in which he trod. 
And iu)w, ascending, after one dark hour 
And one night's diminution of her power, 
Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
She looks as if at them — but they 
Regard not her :— oh better wrong and strife 
(By nature transient) than this torpid life; 
^>ife vvhicli tlie very stars reprove 
As on their silent tasks they move ! 
Vet. witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! 
m scorn I speak not ;— they are what their 
birth 
And breeding suffer tliem to be ; 
Wild outcai;tb ot society ! 
1S07. 



XXI. 

RUTH. 

When Ruth was left half-desolate, 
Her Father took another Mate , 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 
In thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw. 
And music from that pipe could draw 
Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the gre.-n, 
As if she from licr birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

Slie seemed to live ; her thoughts her own 

Herself her own delight ; 

P'leased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 

And, passing thus the live-long day. 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's bhore - 

A military casque he wore, 

Witii splendid feathers drest ; 

He brought them from the Ch,irokeeF ; 

Tlie feathers nodded in t'.ie breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 



From Indian blood you doem him sprung ; 
But no ! he spake the En^j^^isli tongue, 
And bore a soldier's name ; 
And when America was tree, 
Fiom battle and from jeopardy, 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 

In finest ton^s the Youtli could speak ? 

— While he was yet a boy, 

The moon, the glory of the sun. 

And streams that murmur as they run, 

Had been his dearest ]oy. 

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play. 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought, 

And with him many tales he brouglit 

Of pleasure and of fear ; 

Such talcs as told to any maid 

r>y suc'.i a Youth, in the green shade, 

Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and ^hout. 

Their pleasant Indian town, 

To gather strawberries all day long , 

Keturning witli a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly chan'i^e 
Tiieir blossoms, through a boundless range 
Of intermingling hues ; 
With budding, fading, faded flowers 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 

He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high overhead ! 
The cypress and her spire; 
— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leaijiies, and seem 
To set the hills on tire. 

The Youth of green savannas spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake. 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clcyuds. 

" How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
A tisher or a hunter there. 



POEMS OF THE IMAuJNATION. 



17' 



In sunshine or in shade 
To wander wiili an easy mind ; 
And build a houseliold fire, and find 
A home in every glade I 

What days and what bright years ! Ah me ! 

Our life were life indeed, with thee 

So passed in quiet bliss, 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this i " 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts, about a father's love : 
•* For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
Tliat our own cliildren to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 

Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Or shed at night to rear ; 

Or run, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer ! 

Beloved Ruth ! " — no more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A sohtary tear : 

She thought again — and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the fiying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right. 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did ; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That on those lonesome floods. 
And green savannas, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told. 
This Stripling, sportive, gav, and bold, 
And, with his dancing crest, 
?o beautiful, tlirough savage lands 
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a troi)ic sky, 

Miglit well be dangerous food 

For him, a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven, 

^nd such impetuous blood. 



Whatever in those climes he found 

irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those favored bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
Tiiat sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent : 
For passions, linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

I5ut ill he lived, much evil saw, 
VVHh men to whom no better law 
Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived, 
Tiiose wild men's vices he received, 
And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 
The slave of low desires ; 
A Man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feigned delight 
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
Had loved her, night and morn : 
What could he less than love a Maid 
Whose heart with so much nature played I 
So kind and so forlorn I 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
" O Ruth ! 1 have been worse than dead ; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
Encompassed me on every side ■ 
When I, in confidence and pride, 
Had crossed the Atlantic main. 

r>cfore me shone a glorious world—- 
Fresh as a barncr bright, unfurled 
To music suddenly : 
I looked upon those hills and plains, 
And seemed as if let loose from chair-S; 
To live at liberty. 

No more of this ; for now, by thee, 
Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 



178 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIiYATIGN, 



With nobler zeal I burn ; 
My soul from darkness is released, 
Like the whole sky when to the east 
'I'iie morning doth return." 

Full soon that better mind was gone; 
No hope, no wish remained, not one, 
i'hey stirred him now no more ; 
New objects did new pleasure give, 
And once again he wished to live 
As lawless as before. , 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared, 
And went to the sea-shore: 
But, when they thither came, the Youth 
Deserted his poor F>nde, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had. 

That she in half a year was mad. 

And in a prison housed ; 

And there, with many a doleful song 

Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 

She fearfully caroused. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
Nor pastimes of the May ; 
— Tiiey all were with her in her cell ; 
And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her i)ain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
r.ut of the Vagrant none took thought; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. 

A mong the fields she breathed again : 
'Jhe master-cMTcnt of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
Tliere did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That sha])cd her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

\nd airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — she loved them still ; 

Nor ever taxed them with the ill 

Wliich had been done to her. 

A Barn her winter bed supplies : 

But, till tlie warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 

lAncI all do in this tale agree) 

She slet'ps beneath the greenwood tree. 

And otlier home hath none. 



An innocent life, yet far astray I 

And Ruth will, long before her day, 

Be broken down and old : 

Sore aches she needs must have 1 but less 

Of mind than body's wretchedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

if she is prest by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a roadside ; 
And there she begs at one steep place 
Where up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travellers ride. 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman heais. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills 
Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — ,• 
Such small machinery as she turned 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
A young and happy Child! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 
Tliy corpse shall buried be. 
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
And all the congregation sing, 
A Christian psalm for thee. 
1799- 



XXII. 

RFSOLUTION AND INDEPEN- 
DENCE. 
I. 

Therf. was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 

broods ; [ters ; 

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chat- 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise 

of waters. 

II. 
All things that love the sun are out of 

doors ; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on tlK 

moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth ; 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION-. 



179 



And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist ; that, ghttering m the sun, 
Rims with her all the way, wherever she 
doth run. 



I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
1 saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
1 lieard the woods and distant waters roar ; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me 

wholly ; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melan- 
choly. 

IV. 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 

might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew 

not, nor could name. 



I heard the sky-lark warbling in the skv; 

And I bethought me of the playful hare : 

Even such a happy Child of earth am 1 ; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 

Far from the world 1 walk, and from all 
care; 

But there may come another day to me — 

Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and pov- 
erty. 

! vr. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood ; 

As if all needful things would come un- 
] sought 

To "genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 

f>ut how can He expect that others should 
\ Build for him, sow for him. and at his call 
j Love him, who for himself will take no 
heed at all ? 



I thought of Chatter ton, the marvellous 
Boy, 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
pride : 

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 

Fo'lowing his plough, along the mountain- 
side: 



By our own spirits are we deified; 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness : 
But thereof come in the end despondencjl 
and madness. 



Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place. 
When 1 with these untoward thoughts had 

striven. 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares . 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

gray hairs. 



As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
By what means it could thither come, and 

whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 

shelf 
Of rock or sand rcposeth, there to sun iv 

self; 

X. 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 

dead, 
Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage , 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame 

had cast. 



Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale 

face, 
lT]-)on a long gray staff of shaven wood : 
And, still as \ drew near witli gentle pace. 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
Tliat heareth not the loud winds when they 

call: 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 



At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned. 
As if he had been reading in a book : 
And now a stranger's privilege 1 took : 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
"This morning gives i.s promise of a glo 
rious day." 



iSo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTOA\ 



XIII. 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 

In courtouus speech winch fortli lie slowly 

drew : 
And him with f urtiier words I thus bespake, 
' What occupation do you tliere pursue? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his y^t-vivid 

eyes. 

XIV. 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solenm order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
Choice word and measured phrase, ?bove the 

reach 
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man 

their dues. 

XV, 

He told, that to these waters he had come 

To gather leeches, being old and poor : 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardships to endure ; 

[•"rom pond to pond he roamed, from moor 
to moor ; 

Housing, with God's good help, by choice 
or chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest main- 
tenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I 

divide : 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom 1 had met with in a dream ; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admon- 
ishment. 



My former thoughts returned ; the fear that 

kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
Cold, pain, and labor, and .ili fleshly ills ; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
" How is it that you live, and what is it you 

do?" 



He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and 

wide 
He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on everj 

side ; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I 

may." 



While he was talking thuc, the lonely placC; 

The old Man's shape, and speech — all 
troubled me • 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 

About the weary moors continually, 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While 1 these thoughts within myself pur 
sued, 

He, having made a pause, the same dis- 
course renewed. 



And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
But stately in the main ; and when he 

ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
In that decrepit Man so llrm a mind. 
" God," said I, " be my help and stay 

secure ; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the 

lonely moor ! " 
1S07. 



XXIII, 

THE THORN. 
I. 

" There is a Thorn — it looks so t)ld, 

In truth, you'd find it hard to buy 

How it could ever have been young, 

It looks so old and gray. 

Not higher than a two years' child 

It stands erect, this aged Thorn ; 

No leaves it has, no prickly points; 

It is a mass of knotted joints, 

A wretched thing forlorn. 

It stands erect, and like a stone 

With lichens is it overgrown. 



fl 



i\ 



POEMS OF THE fAf AG /NATION: 



[8j 



Like rock or stone, it is o'ers^rown 

With lichens to the very top, 

And hung with lieavy tutts of moss, 

A melanciioly crop : 

Up from ihe earth these mosses creep, 

And this pour Thorn they clasp it round 

So close you'd say that they aie bent 

With plain and manifest intent 

To drag it to the groimd ; 

And all iiave joined m one endeavor 

To bury this poor Thorn forever. 



High on a mountain's highest ridge, 

Wiiere oft the stormy winter gale 

Cuts like a scythe, while through the 

clouds 
It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
Not live yards from the mountain path, 
This Thorn you on your left esi)y ; 
And to the left, three yards beyond, 
You see a little muddy pond 
Of water — never dry, 
Thougli but of compass small, and bare 
To thirsty suns and parching air. 



And, close beside tiiis aged Thorn, 
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
Just half a foot in height. 
All lovely colors there you see, 
All colore tiuit were ever seen ; 
And mossy network too is there, 
As if by hand of lady fair 
The work had woven been ; 
And cups, the darlings of the eye. 
So deep is their vermilion dye. 



Ah me ! what lovely tints arc there 

Of olive green and scarlet bright, 

In spikes, in branches, and in ;.tars, 

(Ireen, red, and pearly white ! 

Tins heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 

Which close beside the Thorn you sec, 

So fresii in all its beauteous dyes, 

Is like an infant's grave in size. 

As like as like can be : 

Bu never, never any where, 

An infant's sravo was half so fair. 



Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
I'his }iond, and beauteous hill of moss, 
You must take care and choose your time 



The mountain when to cross. 

Fur oft there sits between the heap 

So like an infant's grave m size, 

And that same pond of which 1 spoke, 

A Woman in a scarlet cloak, 

And to herself she cries, 

' Oil misery ! oh misery I 

Oh woe is me ! oh irisery ! ' 

va. 
At all times of the day and night 
This wretched Woman thither goes; 
And she is known to every star, 
And every wind that blows ; 
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits 
When the blue daylight's in the skies. 
And when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
Or frosty air is keen and L,till, 
And to herself she cries, 
' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
Oh woe is me I oh misery ! ' " 

VIII. 

" Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
In rain, in tempest, and in snow. 
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
Does this poor Woman go? 
A id why sits she beside the Thorn 
When the blue daylight's in the sky, 
Or when the whirhvind's on the hill. 
Or frosty air is keen and still, 
And wherefore does she cry ? — 

wherefore ? wlierefore ? tell me why 
Does she repeat tha: doleful cry .^ " 

IX. 
" I cannot tell : I wish I could ; 
For the true reason no one knows ; 
Rut would you gladly view the spot. 
The spot to which she goes ; 
The hillock like an infant's grave, 
Tile pond — and Thorn, so old and gray; 
Pass by her di or — 'tis seldom shut — 
And, if you see her in her hut- 
Then to the spot away! 

1 never heard of such as dnre 
Appr'iacli the spot when she is there' 

X. 

" But wherefore to the mountain-top 
Can tliis unhappy Woman go, 
Wiiatever star is in the skies. 
Whatever wind may blow .? " 
" Full twenty years are past and gor.v 
Since she (her name is Martlia Kay) 
Oave with a maiden's true L^ood-will 
Her company to Stephen Hill; 
And she was blithe and gay, 



1 8 J 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



While friends and kindred all approved 
Of him whom tenderly slic loved. 

XI. 

/ind they had fixed the wedding day, 

The morning that must wed them both j 

But Stephen to another Maid 

Had sworn another oath ; 

And, with this other M.iid, to church 

Unthinking Stephen went — 

Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 

A pang of pitiless dismay 

Into lier soul was sent ; 

A fire was kmdled in her breast, 

Which migiit not burn itself to rest. 

XII. 
They say, full six months after this, 
While yet the summer leaves were green, 
She to the mountain-top would go, 
And there was often seen. 
What could she seek ? — or wish to hide ? 
Her state to any eye was plain : 
She was with child, and slie was mad ; 
Yet often was she sober sad 
From her exceeding pain ; 
O guilty Father — would that death 
Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 

XIII 

Sad case for such a brain to hold 

Communion with a stirring child ! 

Sad case, as you may think, for one 

Who had a brain so wild ! 

Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 

And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen 

Held that the unborn mfant wrought 

About its mother's heart, and brought 

Her senses back again : 

And, when at last her time drew near. 

Her looks were calm, her senses clear, 

XIV 

More know I not, I wish I did. 

And it should all be told to you ; 

For what became of this poor child 

No mortal ever knew ; 

Nay— if a child to her was born 

No earthly tongue could ever tell ; 

And if 'twas born alive or dead. 

Far less could this with proof be said ; 

But some remember well 

That Martha Kay about this time 

Would up the mountain often climb. 



And all that winter, when at night 
The wind blew from the mountain -peak, 



'Twas worth your while, though in th« 

dark, 
The churchyard path to seek : 
For many a time and oft were heard 
Cries coming from the mountain head. 
Some plainly living voices were ; 
And others, I've heard many swear, 
Were voices of the dead : 
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
They had to do with Martha Kay. 



But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
'J'he Thorn which I described to you, 
And there sits in a scarlet cloak, 
I will be sworn is true. 
For one day with my telescope. 
To view the ocean wide and bright, 
When to this country first 1 came, 
Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
I climbed the mountain's height; — 
A storm came on, and 1 could see 
No object higher than my knee. 



'Twas mist and ram, and storm and rain j 

No screen, no fence could I discover ; 

And then the wind ! in sooth, it was 

A wind full ten tmies over. 

I looked around, 1 thought I saw 

A jutting crag,— and off I ran, 

Head-foremost, through the diiving rain. 

The shelter of the crag to gain j 

And, as i am a man. 

Instead of jutting crag, I found 

A Woman seated on the ground. 

XVIII. 

I did not speak — I saw her face ; 

Her face ! — it was enough for me', 

1 turned about and heard her cry, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' 

And tliere slie sits, until the moon 

Through half the clear blue sky will go \ 

And, wiien the little breezes make 

The waters of the pond to shake. 

As all the country know. 

She shudders, and you hear her cry, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' " 



" But what's the Thorn ? and what the 

pond? 
And what the hill of moss to her t 
And what the creeping breeze that comes 
The little pond to stir?" 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



»»3 



" I cannot tell ; 'but some will say 

She hanged her baby on the tree ; 

Some say she drowned it in the pond, 

Which is a little step beyond : 

13iit all and each agree, 

'J'he little Babe was buried there. 

Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XX. 

I've heard, the moss is spotted red 

With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 

But kill a new-born infant thus, 

I do not think she could ' 

Some say, if to the pond you go, 

And fix on it a steady view, 

The shadow of a babe you trace, 

A baby and a baby's face. 

And that it looks at you ; 

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 

The baby looks at you again. 



And some had sworn an oath that she 
Should be to public justice brought j 
And for the little infant's bones 
With spades they would have sought. 
But instantly the hill of moss 
Before their eyes began to stir ! 
And, for full fifty yards around, 
'J'he grass — it shook upon the ground 
Vet all do still aver 
Tiie little liabe lies buried there, 
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XXII. 

I cannot tell how this may be, 
But i)lain it is the Thorn is bound 
With heavy tufts of moss that strive 
To drag it to the ground ; 
And this I know, full many a time. 
When she was on the mountain high, 
Bv day, and in the silent night. 
When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
That I have heard her cry, 
' Oh misery I oh misery ' 
Oh woe is me ! oh misery I ' " 
1798. 



XXIV. 

HART-LEAP WELL. 

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, 
about five miles from Riclimond in York- 
shire, and near the side of the road that leads 
from Richmond to Askrisc;. Its name is de- 
rived from a remarkable Chase, the memory 
•f which is preserved by the monuments 



spoken of in the second part of the following 
Poem, which monuments do now exist as I 
have there described them. 

The Knight had ridden ('own from Wens 

ley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud 
And now, as he approached a vassal's 

doo!-, 
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried 

aloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal 

heard, 
And saddled his best Steed a comely gray; 
Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that gloriou5 

day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's 

eyes ; 
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's ILilI, 
That as they galloped made the echoes 

roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and 

all; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
(?alls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
r.lanch. Swift, and Music noblest of their 

kind, 
i'ollow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

J'he Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid 

them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings 

stern • 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by 

one. 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain 

fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race i 
The bugles that so jo\^iilly were blown P 
— This chase it looks not like an earthly 

chase; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain 

side; 
I will not stop to tell liow far he Hed, 
Nor will I mention by what death he dleo ; 
But now the Knight beholds him lying 

deadt 



i84 



POEMS or THE iMACFNATIOiV. 



Oismcunting, then, he leaned against a 

tlioin ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor 

boy ; 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his 

horn. 
But gazed 'ijwn tlie spoil with silent joy 

Close to the tliorn on which Sir Walter 

leaned 
Stood his dumb partner in this glon(jus 

feat ; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; j 
And white with foam as if with cleaving 

sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched 
His nostril touched a spring beneath a lull. 
And with the last deep groan his bre?..h had 

fetched 
The waters of the spring were trembling 

still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
( Never liad living man sucii joyful lot !) 
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, 

and west. 
And gazed and gar.ed upon that darling 

spot. 

And climbing up the hill— (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir W.dter found 
Tliree several hoof-marks wh.ch the iuinted 

Ilea St 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, * Till 

now 
Such sight was never seen by human eves 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 

brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a pl(-asurehouse upon this spot. 
And a small arbor made for rural joy . 
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's 

cot, 
A place of love for damsels that are coy. 

A cunning artist wilT I have to frame 
A basin for that fountain in tlie dell ! 
And they who do make mention of the 

same.^ 
From this day fc.rtli shall call it Hart-Leap 

Well, 

And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises 

known, 
Another monument shall here be raised; 



Three several pillars, each a rough-hewa 

stone. 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 

grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are 

long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion witli its arbor shall endure; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of .Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of 
Ure I " 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 

stone-dead. 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the 

spring. 
- Soon did the Knight perform what he 

had said ; 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

r.re thrice the Moon into her port had 

steered, 
A cup of stone received the living well ; 
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 

reared, 
And built a house (>f pleasure in the dell 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 

With trailing plants and trees were inter- 
twined, — 

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer days wer« 

long. 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; 
And with the dancers and the minstiera 

song 
Made merriment within that pleasant 

bower. 
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of 

time, 

And his bones he in his paternal vale. — 
And there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade ; 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts • 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts 



POEMS OF THE /MAC/NAJ'iOAr. 



1S5 



As I from Hawcs to Richmond did repair 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 

What this imported I could ill-divine : 
Ajid, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor 

head ; 
Half wasted the square mound of tawny 

green ; 
Fo that you just might say, as then I said, 
'• Here in old time the hand of man hath 

been.'' 

I looked upon the hill both far and nes ■, 
More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not 

here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in sheplierd's garb at- 
tired, 
Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
And what this place might be 1 then m- 
quired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story 
told 

Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
hearsed. 

"A jolly place," said he, " in time of old! 

But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen 

wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others 

elms — 
These were the bower ; and here a mansion 

stood. 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

The arbor does its own condinon tell ; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the 

stream : 
But as to thfe jireat Lodge ! you might as 

well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 

sheep. 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, wlien all are fast asleep, 
This water doth send forth a dolorous 

groan. 



L 



Some say that here a murder has been done 
And blood cries out for blood ; but, for mv 

part, ^ 

I've guessed, when I've been sitting ip th« 

sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart 

What thoughts must through the creature's 

brain have past ! 
Even from the topmost stone, upon ihc 

steep. 
Are but three bounds— and look, Sir. at th.s 

last— 
O Master! it has been a cruel leap. 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simj)le mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love 

this place. 
And come and make his deathbed near Mie 

well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank^ 
Lulled by the fountain in the sunnncr-tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank ' 
When he had wandered from his mother's 
side. 

In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols 
^ sing; [born 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
Not half a furlong from that self-same 
sprmg. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 

shade ; 
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 
So will it be, as I have often said, 
Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are 

gone." 

" Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 

vvcli ; 
Small difference lies b twecn thy < reed and 

mme : 
This Beast not unobserved bv Nature fell ; 
His death was mourned by symijathy divine. 
The Bemg, that is m the clouds and air. 
That IS in the green leaves among the 

groves, 
Mamtains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffendmg creatures whom he 

loves.>> 

The pleasure-house is dust ;— behmd, before, 
This is no common waste, no common 

gloom ; 
But Nature, in due course of time, once 

more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloora 



i86 



PGEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOl^. 



She leaves tliese objects to a slow decay, 
That what we are, and have been, iiuiy be 

known ; 
But at the cuining of the milder day, 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows, and what 
— conceals ; 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that 
feels." 
iSoo. 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF 
BROUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LOUD CLIP 
FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TOTHE ESTATES 
AND HONORS OE HIS ANCESTORS. 

High m the breathless Hall the Minstrel 

sate, 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the 

Song. — 
The words cf ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long:— 

" From town to town, from tower to tower, 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past, 

The red rose is revived at last , 

She lefts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossomuig : 

Both roses flourish, red and white : 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are aided. — 

Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array I 

Fair greeting dotli she send to all 

From every Cdrner of the hall , 

Both chiefly Irom above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored ! 

They came with banner, spear, and 
siueld , j 

And it was proved in Bosworth-field 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Eartli helped him with the cry of blood : 
St George was for us, and the might 
Ot blessed Angels crowned vlie right. 



I-oiid voice the Land has uttered forth, 
Wc 'eldest in the faithful north . 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains rinp, 
Our streamfi proclaim a welcoming 
Our strong abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at thir, hour 
Though lonely, a acsertcd "."ower , 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, pa;:c and 

groom 
We have them at the feast of Brorph'm 
How glad Pendragon— though the sice) 
Of years be on her I — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing 
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I do("rr 
Beside her little humble stream ; 
And she that keepeth watch and wnrd 
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
They both are happy at this hour, 
Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side, 
This day, distinguished without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer — 
Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born^ 
(rive her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and tlie Child. 
Who will take them from the light? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where ? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks. 
To the clouds of heaven she looks; 
She is speechless, but her e3es 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
Maid and Mother undehled. 
Save a Mother and her Child ! 

Now who is he that bounds with jo/ 
On Carrock's side, a Shephcrd-iioy P 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pa* 
IJght as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither cam::; 
In secret, like a smothered flame t 
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
The Lady's v;ords, \ -nen forced away 
The last sii£ to her Babe did say : 



PO'^tJfS OF THE I MAG FN A T/OjV. 



t87 



•My own, my own, thy Fellow-gucit 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly bhcpherd's life is bjst 1 ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is sood, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
Ami leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 
And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Cdenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkcld praise 
Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 
r^ir tliis young T.ird that is distrcst ; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And he was free to sport and play, 
When falcons were abroad iox prey. 

A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's car ! 
i said, when evil men are strong. 
No life is good, no pleasure long, 
A weak and cowartlly imtnith ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful througli a weary time. 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
— Again he wanders forth at will, 
And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
His garb is humljle ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear ; 
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
And both the undying fish that swim 
Through Bowscalc-tarn did wait on him ; 
Tlie pair were servants of his eye 
In their immortality ; 
And glancing, gleaminr^, dark or bright, 
Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
He knew the rocks which Angels iiaunt 
Upon the mountains visitant ; 
He hath kenned them taking wing : 
And into caves where Fairies sing 
He hath entered ; and been told 
By Voices how men lived of old. 
Among the heavens his eye can see 
The face of thing that is to be ; 
And, if that men report hmi right, 

II His tongue could whis]-)cr weirds of might. 

■ »— Now another day is come. 



He hath thrown aside his crook, 
And hath buried deep his book ; 
.'\rmor rusting in his Iialls 
On the blood of Clifford colls ;— 
' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the LauL- 
Bear me to the heart of France, 
Is the longing of the Shield- 
Tell thy name, tliou trembling Field j 
Field of death, where'er tliou be, 
(ii'oan thou with our victory ! 
Haj-ipy day, and mighty hour, 
VVlien our Shepherd, in his power, 
Mailed and horsed, with lance and svtrord, 
To his ancestors restored. 
Like a re-appearing Star, 
Like a glory from afar, 
First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not 

know 
I low, by Heaven's grace, tliis Clifford's heart 

was framed : 
How he, long forced in humble walks to go. 
Was softened into feeling, siH>thed, and 

tamed. 

Love had be found m huts where poor men 

he ; 
^fis daily teachers had been woods and \ \U, 
'J'he silence that is in the starry sky, 
Tiic sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 

deati : 
Nor did he change , but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage- 
hearth ; 

The Siiephcrd-lord was honored more and 
more ; 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 

'• Tlie good Lord Clifford" was the name 
he bore. 
1S07 



XXVI. 

LINES, 

composei) a few miles above ttntkrn 
aubey, on revisiting the banks oh 
the wye during a tour. 
July 13, 1798. 

Five years have past, five suinm:rs, with 

the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I h&ir 



i88 



POEMS OF THE TMAGfNATION. 



These waters, rolling from their nioiintain- 

sprint;s 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once a,c;ain 
Do I behold these steej) and lofty cliffs, 
'Jliat on a wild secluded scene inijn-ess 
Tliouglits of more deep secluaion ; and con- 
nect 
The landscape witii tlie quiet of the sky. 
The day 15 come whtn I again repose 
Here, under t!>is dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottagt-ground, these orchard- 

tirtts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe 

Irints, 
Are cliid in one green luie, and lose them 

selves 
'Mid groves and cx)j)scs. Once again 1 ree 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 

hnes 
Of siwrtive wood run wild : these pastoral 

farms, 
Green to tha very door ; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from amoiig the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the liou^eless woods, 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beaiitcous forms 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
I>ut oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love.' Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world. 
Is lightened : — tliat serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal fmme 
/\nd even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made qu.iet by the power 
Of harmony, and the derp power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 



If this 
Be but a vain oclief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unjjrofitable, and the fever of the world. 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart«» 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! tiiou wanderer thro' tha 

woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half cxlin- 

guishcd thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again ; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 
Tliat in tiiis moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Tiiough changed, no doubt, from what I 

was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
1 bounded o'er the mountains, by the s-ides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than 

one 
Who sought tlie thing he loved. For na- 

tine then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish clays. 
And their glad animal movements all cone 

by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
ITnnntcd me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood. 
Their colors and their forms, were then to 

me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
l-v thought supplied,. nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye.-f-That time tt 

past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. ' Not for this 
Faint 1, nor mourn nor murmur; othei 

gifts ■ 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would be- 
lieve. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing ofteO 

times 
The still, sad music of humanity. 



POEMS OF THE /AfAGTA^ATTON'. 



189 



Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chast-^n and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean and tlie livinfj air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all 

thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore 

am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
lMo!n this green earth ; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half cre- 
ate, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recog- 
nize 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
'llie anchor of my purest thoughts, the 

nurse, 
Th » guide, the guardian of my heart, and 

soul 
Of id! my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taugiit, should 1 the 

more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Fri^Mid, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
or thy wild eyes. Oh 1 yet a little while 
May I behold in thee wh;it I was once, 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 

make 
'Knowing that Nature never did betray 
'j'he heart that loved her ; 'tis her ])rivi1cge 
'I'hrough all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From jov to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

m n, 
Mor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 



Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 

moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blcnv against thee : and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! 

then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what liealing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
And these my exhortations ! N( r, per- 

chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together; and tliat I, so long 
\ worshipper of Nature, liitlicr came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 
With warmer love — oh I with far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt tliou then forget. 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

cliffs, 
.•\nd this green pastoral landscape were to 

me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 

sake 1 
17.J8. 



XXVII. 

It is no .Spirit who from heaven hath flown, 

And is descending on his embassy ; 

Nor Traveller gone fio.n earth the heavens 

to espy ! 
'Tis Hesperus — there he stands witli glitter 

ing crown, 
First admonition that the sun is down ! 
For yet it is broad daylitrht : clouds pass 

by; 
A few are near him still— and now the sky. 
He hath it to himself— 'tis all his own. 
O most ambitious Star ! an incjuest wrought 
Within me when I recognized thy liglit; 
A moment I was startled at the sight : 
And, while I gazed, there cam*" to me a 

thought 



igo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



That I might step beyond my natural race 
As tliou seem'st now to do ; might one day 

trace 
Some ground not mine ; and, strong her I 

strength above, i 

My Soul, an Apparition in the place, j 

Tread there with steps that no one shall j 

reprove ! i 

1803. 1 

XXVIII. 

FRENCH REVOLUTION, 

AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
COMMENCEMENT. 

REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND." 

Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars which then 

stood 
Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! 
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very heaven ! — oh ! 

times 
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert 

her riglits. 
When most intent on making of herself 
A prime Enchantress — to assist the work 
Wliich then was going forward in her 

name ! 
Not favored spots alone, but the whole 

earth, 
The beauty wore of promise, that which 

sets 
(As at some moment might not be unfelt 
Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
Wliat temper at the prospect did not wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
Tliey who had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
The playfellows of fancy, who liad made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 
Their ministers^ — ^y\\o in lordly wise !iad 

stirred 
Among the grandcjt objects of the sense. 
And dealt vrith whatsoever they found 

there 
As if they had v'.thin some lurking right 
To wield it {--they, too, who, of gentle 

iiiood. 



Had watched all gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 
And in the region of their peaceful selves :— 
Now was it that botli found, the Aieek and 

loftv 
Did both find, helpers to their heart's de- 
sire, 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish ; 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
Or some secreted island. Heaven knowp. 

where ! 
But in tlie very world, which is the world 
(>f all of us, — the place wlit-ie in the end 
We find our happiness, or not at all I 

iSOv 



XXIX. 



Yes, it was the Mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound. 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for suimd ! 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent : 

Like her ordinary cry. 

Like — but oh, how different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life.? 
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures \ 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife— 
Vcnces of two different natures ? 

Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not wlience: 
Echoes from beyond the grave. 
Recognized intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 
Listen, ponder, hold them dearj 
For of (lod, — of God they are. 
1806. 



XXX. 

TO A SKY -LARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky \ 
Uost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 

eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 



POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 



19 



Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music 
still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 

fkiod 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
Type of the wise who soar, but never 

roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and 

Home ! 
1825. 



XXXI. 

LAODAMIA. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
spired : 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades 
forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I re- 
quired : 

Celestial pity I again implore : — 

Restore him to my sight— great Jove, re- 
store ! » 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts 

her hands ; 
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
Her countenance brightens — and her eye 

expands ; 
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature 

E;rows ; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O 

jov! 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she 

behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
[t is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with 

his wand 
That calms all fear : " Such grace hath 

crowned thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
Thy Husband walks tlie paths of upper air : 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 

space ; 
Accept the gift, behold liim face to fate ! " 



Forth sprang th.e impassioned Queen her 

Lord to clasp : 
Again that consummation she essayed : 
But unsubstantial Form eludes h.er grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice; 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne : 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will 

rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia I doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringcth boundless gain. 

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Tro- 
jan strand 

Should die ; but me the threat could not 
withhold : 

A generous cause a victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 

best! 
Thy matchless courage 1 bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were 

deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — iiere 

thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath 

decreed 
Though should'st elude the malice of the 

grave : 
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian 

air. 

No Spectre greets me — no vain Shadow 
this ; 

Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my 
side ! 

Give, on this well known couch, one nup- 
tial kiss 

To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 



192 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious 

Parcaj threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

*'■ This visage tells me that my doom is 

past : 
Nor should the change be mourned, even 

if the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly— Erebus disdains : 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly 

mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

"Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by 

force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the 

tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 

bloom .? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of 

years, 
And iEson stood a youth 'mid youthful 

peers. 

The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
Yet furtlier may relent : for mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the 

sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favorite seat be feeble 

woman's breast. 

But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" 
he said, — 

She looked upon him and was calmed and 
cheered ; 

Tlie ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, ap- 
peared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy 
place. 

lie spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsigh'd for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, witli finer liarmony pursued ; 



Of all that is most beauteous— imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the 

brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath 

earned 
That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned, 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain de- 
light. 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 

night ; 
And while my youthful peers before my 

eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
tained ; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

The wished-for wind was given : — I then 

revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the 

strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan 

sand. 

Vet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
The paths which \si. had trod — these foun- 
tains, flowers ; 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished 

towers. 
But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 

array 
Yet of their number no one dares to die.?* 
In soul 1 swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty 

thought 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And Thou, though strong in love, art all tot 

weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest re-union in the shades below. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



93 



The invisible world with thee hath sympa- 
thized ; 
Be thy affection raised and solemnized. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that 

end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self migiit be annulled ; her bondage 

prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes re-appears! 
Round the dear Shade she would have 

clung — 'tis vain : 
The hours are past — too brief had they 

been years; 
And him no mortal effort can detain : 
Swift, toward the realms tiiat know not 

earthly day, 
He through the portal takes his silent way, 
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She 

lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed 

time. 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather 

flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man 

alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died. 
And ever, when such stature they had 

gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their 

view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at the 

sight ; 
A constant interchange of growth and 

blight ! * 
1814. 

* For the account of tliese long-liverl trees, 
sec Pliny's Natural History, lib. xvi. can. 44 ; 
arH for the fentiires in the character of Pro- 
tesilaus see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euri- 
pides 



XXXII. 

DION. 

(see PLUTARCH.) 

Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
Wliere'er he turned, ?. swan-like grace 
Of hraightiness without pretence. 
And to unfold a still magnificence. 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pure homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues ! while the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
P>11 round him in the grove of Academe, 
Softening their inbred dignity austere— 
That he, not too elate 
With self-sufficing solitude. 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 

Might in the universal bosom reign, 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 

n. 
Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous 

day ! 
Each crowned with flowers, and armed with 

spear and shield. 
Or ruder weapon which their course migiit 

yield, 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
Who leads them on ? — The anxious people 

see 
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad ! 
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or 

fear 
The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain. 
Salute those strangers as a Iioly train 
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
That brought their precious liberty again. 
Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each 

hand, 
Dowm the long street, rich goblets filled 

with wine 

In seemly order stana, 
On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches bv, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits 

bestrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain fron 

prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were 1 



T94 



POEMS OF THE imagination: 



" 



III. 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and 

mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament foi him whose spirit 

dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks 

and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause. 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in tiie sctiools where Wisdom 

dwells retired. 
Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway 

paved with stars) 
Which Dion learned to measure with sub- 
lime delight : — 
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars : 
And, following guides whose craft holds no 

consent 
With aught that breathes the ethereal cle- 
ment, 
Hath stained the robes of civil power with 

blood, 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
Whence doubts that came too late, and 

wishes vain. 
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 
And oft his cogitations sink as low 
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
The heaviest iilummct of dcsjiair can go — 
But whence that sudden check ? that fearful 
start ! 
He hears an uncouth sound — 
Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bounl, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and 
round. 
A woman's garb the Phantom wore. 
And fiercely swcjit the marble floor, — 
Like Auster whirling to and fro. 
His force on Caspian foam to try; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the jilains of Thcssaly, 
Or when aloft on Mienalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 



IV. 



So, but from toil less sign of profit rea]^Jn£ 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
Nu pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
•* Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt,'' 



Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me rather 

see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid 

flake, 
And the long train of dolefr.l pageantry 
Which they behold whom vengeful Furies 

haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scoi.rge 

to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unwrrn, 
And, in their anguish, bear what othci 

minds have borne I " 



But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
Once raised, remanns aghast, and will not 

fall! Inunt 

Ve Gods, thought He, that servile Jnipio- 
Obeys a mystical intei.t 1 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should she labor night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear; 
\\'hence angry pcrturUitious,— and that 

look 
Which no Philosophy can brook ! 

VI. 

Ill-fated Chief I there are whose hopes are 

built 
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; 
W'ho, through the portal of one mouicnt's 

guilt. 
Pursue thee with their deadly aim! 
O matchless jierfidy ! portentous lust 
Of monstrous crime !— that horror-striking 

blade. 
Drawn in defiance of [he Gods, hath had 
The noble Syracusan low in dust I 
Shudder'd the walls — the marble city v.'ejH - 
And sylvan places heaved a jiensive sigh; 
But in calm peace the appointed Victim 

slept, 
As he had fallen in magn nimity ; 
Of spirit too capacious to require 
That Destiny her course should change ; toe 

just 
To his own native greatness to desire 
That wretched boon, days lengthened by 

mistrust. 
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
Released from life and cares of princely 

state, 
He left tiiis mora' grafted on his Fate: 



POEMS OP THE IMAGINATI0I7. 



195 



I 



* Him only pleasure leads, and peace at- 
tends, 
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
Whose means are fair and spotless as his 
ends." 
iSi6. 



XXXIII. 

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 



Within the mind strong fancies work, 

A deep delight the bosom thrills. 

Oft as I pass along the fork 

Of these fraternal hills : 

Where, save the rugged road, we find 

No appanage of human kind, 

Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 

Seem not liis handy-work to mock 

By something cognizably shaped : 

Mockery — or model roughly iicwn, 

And left as if by earthquake strewn, 

Or from the Flood escaped : 

Altars for Druid service fit ; 

( But where no fire was ever lit, 

Unless the glow-worm to the skies 

Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 

Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 

Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 

Tents of a camp that never shall be razed—. 

On which four tliousand years have gazed ! 



Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes 1 

Ye snow-white lambs that trip 

Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 

Of restless ownership ! 

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 

To feed the insatiate Prodigal 

Lawns, houses, chattels, groves and fields, 

All that the fertile valley ""shields ; 

Wages of folly — baits of crime, 

Of life's uneasy game the stake, 

Flaytliings that keep the eyes awake 

Of drowsy, dotard 'i'ime ; — 

O care ! O guilt !— O vales and plains. 

Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 

A Genius dwells, that can subdue 

At once all memory of You, — 

Most potent when mists veil the sky 

Mists that distort and magnify ; 

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping 

breeze, 
Sigk forth their ancient melodies 1 



LLt to those shriller notes ! — that march 

Perchance was on the blast, 

When, through this Height's inverted arch 

Rome's earliest legion passed I 

— They saw, adventurously impelled, 

And older eyes than theirs beheld, 

Tius block — and yon, whose cluirch-likt 

frame 
Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapory bourn. 
Not seldom may the hour return 
When thou shalt be my guide : 
And I (as all men may find cause, 
When life is at a weary pause, 
And they have panted up tlie hill 
Of duty with reluctant will) 
Be thankful, even though tired and fainl, 
For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
That choice lacked courage to bestow 1 



My soul was grateful for delight 

That wore a threatening brow ; 

A veil is lifted — can she slight 

The scene that opens now? 

Though habitation none appear, 

'i'he greenness tells, man must be there 

The shelter — that the perspective 

Is of the clime in whicli we live : 

Where Toil pursues liis daily round • 

Where Pity sheds sweet tears— and Love_ 

In woodbine bower or birchen grove. 

Inflicts his tender wound. 

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below : 

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 

Tlie brook adown the rocky steeps. 

Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 

Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 

Carols like a shej^herd-boy ; 

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy i 

Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 

Smoothly skims the meadows wide : 

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud. 

To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 

" Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicket* 

dare, 
Thv lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fairl'' 
kSi;. 



196 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



XXXIV. 

TO ENTERPRISE. 

Keep for the Young the impassione.. smile 
Shed fro!n thy countenance, as 1 see thee 

stand 
High on tliat chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, 
A slender volume grasping in thy hand — 
( Perchance the pages that relate 
The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
Ah, spare the exultmg smile, 
And drop thy p inting finger bright 
As the first fiasli of beacon lic;ht ; 
But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, 
Nor turn thy face away 
From One who, m the evening of his day, 
To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn ' 



Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove 
Among the starry courts of Jove, 
And oft in splendor dost appear 
Embodied to poetic eyes, 
While traversing this nether sphere. 
Where Mortals call thee Enterprise, 
Daughter of Hope! lier favorite Child, 
Wiiom she to young Ambition Ixire, 
When hunter's arrow first defiled 
Tiic grove, and stained tiie turf with gore ; 
Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
On board Euphrates' palmy shore. 
And where the mightier Waters burst 
From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
She v/rapped thee in a panther's skin ; 
And Thou, thy favorite food to win, 
The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
From her rock-fortress in mid air. 
With infant siiout ; and often sweep, 
Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain: 
Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
With rolling years thy strengtii increased; 
And, far beyond thy. native East, 
To thee, by varying titles known 
As variously thy power was shown, 
Did incense-bearing altars rise 
Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 
From suppliants panting for the skies 1 



What though this ancient Earth be trod 
No more by step of Demi-god 
Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 
Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
And the hu:.hed farewell of an 



Where no procrastinating gaze 
A last infirmity betrays. 
Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
Shall ne'er submit to cold decaj. 
By thy divinity impelled, 
The Stripling seeks the tented field : 
The aspiring Virgin kneels : and, pale 
With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 
A soft and tender Heroine 
Vowed to severer discipline : 
Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy, 
And of the ocean's dismal breast 
A play-ground, — or a couch of rest ; 
'Mid the blank world of snow and ice. 
Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
By chasm or dizzy jirecipice ; 
And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
How soaring Mortals glide between 
Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
With bolder than Icarian flight? 
How they, in bells of crystal, dive- 
Where winds and waters cease to strive— 
For no unholy visitings, 
Among the monsters of the Deep ; 
And ail tlie sad and precious things 
Which there in ghastly silence sleep ? 
Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
And breathless calms no longer dreaded, 
In never-slackening voyage go 
Straight as an arrow from the bow : 
And, slighting sails and scorning oars, 
Keep faith with Time on distart sliores? 
—Within our fearless reach arc placed 
The secrets of the burning Waste; 
Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
Unbosom their last mysteries. 
— But oh! what transports, what sublime 

reward. 
Won from the world of mind, dost thou pre- 
pare 
For philosophic Sage : or high-souled Bard 
Who, for thy service trained in lonely 
woods, [air, 

Hath fed on pageants floating through the 
Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; 
Nor grieves — tlio' doom'd thro' silent night 

to bear 
The domination of his glorious themes. 
Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 

HI. 

If there be movements in the Patriot's soifl, 
From source still deeper, and of higher 
worth, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



[97 



Tis thine tlie quickening impulse to con 

trol, 
And in clue season send the mandate forth ; 
Tliy call a prostrate nation can restore, 
When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 

no more, 

IV. 

Dread Minister of wratli ! 

Who to their destined punishment dost 

urge 
The Pharaohs of the earth the men of 

hardened heart ! 
Not unassisted by the flattering stars, 
Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
When they in pomp depart 
With trampling horses and refulgent cars — 
Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge ; 
Or cast, for lingermg death, on unknown 

strands ; 
Or caught amid a whirl of desert sands — 
An army now, and now a living hill 
That a brief while heaves with convulsive 

Throes- 
Then all is still ; 

Or, to forget their madness and their woes. 
Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows \ 

V. 
Back flows the willing current of my Song 
If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? 
— Bold Goddess ! rangt our Youth among ; 
Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
In hearts no longer young ; 
Still may a veteran Few have pride 
In thoughts whose sternness makes 

sweet ; 
In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
That to their object cleave like sleet 
Whitening a pine tree's northern side 
When fields are naked far and wide. 
And withered leaves, from earth': 

breast 
Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can find 



them 



cold 



rest. 



VI. 



But, if such homage thou disdain 

As doth with mellowing years agr 

One rarely absent froni thv train 

More humble favors may obtain 

For thy contented Votarv. 

She, who incites the frolic lambs 

In presence of their heedless dams, 

And to the solitary fawn 

Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph 



That wakes the breeze, the sparkling lymph 
Doth hurry to tlie lawn ; 
She, who inspires that strain of ioyanceholy 
Which the sweet Bird, misuamedthe melan 

choly, 
Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for 

me. 
And vernal morninofs opening bright 
With views of undefined delight. 
And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
On busy days, with tl-.ankful nights, be mine 

VII. 

But thou. O Goddess ' in thv favorite Isle 

(Freedom's impregnable redoubt. 

The wide eartli's store-house fenced about 

With breakers roaring to the gales 

That stretcli a thousand thousand sails) 

Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! - 

Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 

Glad Hope would almost cease to be 

If torn from thy society ; 

And Love, when worthiest of his name, 

Is proud to walk the earth with Thee! 



TO 



ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE GUMMlt 
OF HELVELLYN. 

Inmate of a mountain dwelling, 
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
From the watch-towers of Heivellyn ; 
Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 

Potent was the spell that bound thee 
Not unwilling to obey ; 
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee» 
Stilled the pantings of dismay. 

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
What a vast abyss is there I 
Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows, 
And the glistenings — heavenly fair 

And a record of commotion 
Which a thousand ridges yield : 
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
Gleaming like a silver shield I 

Maiden ! now take flight : — inherit 
Alps or Andes — they are thine ! 
With the morning's roseate Spirit. 
Sweep their length of snowy line: 



T08 



poems; of the TMACmATION 



Or survey their bright dominions 
In the gorgeous colors drest 
Flung from off the purple pinions, 
Evening spreads throughout the west I 
Thine are all the coral fountains 
Warbling in each sparry vault 
0{ the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 
To Niphates' top invited, 
Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 
Or descend where the ark alighted, 
When the green earth re-appeared ; 
For the power of hills is on thee, 
As was witnessed through thine eye 
Then when old Helvellyn won thee 
To confess their majesty ! 
1816. 



XXXVI. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail 

— There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbor and a hold ; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shaltsee 

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 

And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade. 

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 

Shalt show us how divine a thuig 

A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 

Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave; 

IJut an old age serene and bright, 

And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 

XXXVIl. 

WATER-FOWL. 

•* Let me be allowed '.he aid of verse to de- 
scribe the evolutions whicli these visitants 
soinetinies perform, on a fine day, towards 
the close of winter." — Extract front the 
A uthor'' s Book on tJte Lakes. 
Mark how the feathered tenants of the 

flood, 
With grace of motion that might scarcely 
seem 



Inferior to angelical, prolong 

Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air 

(And sometnnes with ambitious wing tl«l 

soars 
High as the level of the mountain-tops) 
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath — 
Their own dc ma'n ; but ever, while intent 
On tracing and retracing that large round. 
Their jubilant activity evolves 
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
Upward and downward, progress intricate 
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done — 
Ten times, or more, 1 fancied it had ceased ; 
But lo 1 the vanished company again 
Ascending : they approach — I hear their 

wings. 
Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager sound, 
Past in a moment — and as faint again ! 
They tempt the sun to sport amid their 

plumes : 
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice. 
To show them a fair image ; 'tis themselves, 
Tlieir own fair forms, upon the glimmering 

plain. 
Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
Almost to touch ; — then up again aloft. 
Up with a sally and a flash of speed. 
As if they scorned both resting-place and 

rest 1 
1812. 



VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK 
COMB.* 

This Height a ministering Angel might 

select : 
For from the summit of Black Comb 

(dread name 
Derived from clouds and storms!) the 

amplest range 
Of unobstructed prospect mav be seen 
That British ground commands : — low dusky 

tracts. 
Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! 

Cambrian hills 
To the south-west, a multitudinous show ; 
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these 
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 
To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, ani 

Clyde :— 
Crowding the quarter whence the sun come« 

forth 



* Black Com'} stands at the southern exlrem 
ity of Cumberland. 



FORMS OF THE IMACrNAriON. 



99 



Gigantic mountains rough with crags ; be- 
neath, 
Right at tile imperial station's western base 
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
Thar, as we lett the plain, before (Tin- sight 
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
(Above the convex of the watery globe) 
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
Her habitable shores, but now appears 
A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge. 
Is it a perishable clnud ? Or there 
Do we behold the line of Erin's coast ? 
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd- 
swain 
(Like' the bright confines of another world) 
Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward 

now ! 
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's 

works. 
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea. 
A revelation infinite it seems ; 
Display august of man's inheritance, 
Of Britain's calm felicity and power. 
1S13. 



THE HAUNTED TREE. 



Those silver clouds collected round the sun 
Ilis mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less 
To overshade than multiply his beams 
I3y soft reflection — grateful to the sky, 
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our 

human sense 
Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
More ample than the time-dismanllcd Oak 
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, 

attired 
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords 
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 
Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of Art, 
That eastern Sultan, amid flowers en- 
wrought 
On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose 
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the 

chase. 
O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, 



Approach ; — and, thus invited, crown with 

rest 
The noon-tide hour; though truly some 

there are 
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind 
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking 

sound 
(Al)ove the general roar of woods and crags) 
Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have 

deemed) 
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 
Haunts the old trunk ; lamenting deedb of 

which 
The flowery ground is conscious. But no 

wind 
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; 
Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious 

Tree 
Is mute ; and, in his silence, would look 

down, 
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills. 
On thy reclining form with more delight 
Than his coevals in the sheltered vale 
Seem to participate, the while they view 
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy 

heads 
Vividly pictured in some glassy pool. 
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying 

stream! 
1819. 



THE TRIAD. 

Show me the noblest Youth of present 

time. 
Whose trembling fancy would to love gi /e 

birth ; 
Some Cod or Hero, from the Oi^mpiim 

clime 
Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth ; 
Or, in no doubtful prospect, lot me see 
The brightest star of ages yet to be. 
And I v/ill mate and match him blissfully. 

I will not fetch a Naiad from a f^ood 

Pure as herself — (song lacks not mi-htict 

power) 
Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a patliless 

wood, 
Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her cora» 

bower : 



200 



POEMS OF THE T^rAGIlVATTON. 



Mere Mortals, bodied iorth in vision still, 
Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
The chasttr coverts ot a British hill. 

" Appear !— obey my lyre's command 
Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
For ye, though not by birth allied, 
Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
Presume those interwcavings to rcj)rove 
In you, which that fair progeny of Jove, 
Learned from the tuneful spheres that glide 
In endless union, earth and sea above.'' 
—1 sing in vain ;— the pines have hushed 

their waving : 
A peerless Youth expectant at my side, 
Breathless as they, with unabated cravuig 
Looks to the earth, and to the vacant ,ir; 
And, with a wandering eye that seems to 

chide. 
Asks of the clouds what occupants they 

hide : — 
But why solicit more than sight could bear, 
By casting on a moment all we dare ? 
Invoke we those bright Beings one by one ; 
And what was boldly promised, truly shall 

be done. 

" Fear not a constraining measure 1 
— Yielding to this gentle spell, 
Lucida ! n-om domes of pleasure. 
Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
Come to regions solitary, 
Where the eagle builds her aery. 
Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell ! " 
— She comes ! — behol(f 

That Figure, like a ship vvith snow-white sail ! 
Nearer she draws ; a breeze uplifts her veil ; 
Upon her coming wait 
As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
As e'er, on herbage covering earthly mould. 
Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
His richest splendor — when his veering gait 
And every motion of his starry train 
Seem governed by a strain 
Of music, audible to him alone. 

" O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest 
Throne ! 
Nor less, by excellence ot nature, fit 
Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 
Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown ; 
What living man could fear 
The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou 

near, ' 
Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek, 
That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
Brush the too happy tear ? 



Queen, and handmaid lowly ! 

Whose skill can speed the day with livelji 
cares. 

And banish melancholy 

By all that mmd invents or nand prepares; 

O Thou, against whose lip, witliout its smile 

And in its silence even, no heart is proof ; 

Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reC' 
oncile 

The scftest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
To the bare life beneath the liawthorn-roof 
Of Sherwood's Archer, or :n caves of Wal- 
lace — 
Who that hath seen thy beauty could content 
His soul with but a i^lnnfsc of heavenly day ? 
Who that hath loved thee, but -vould lay 
His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent 
'J'o take thee in thy majesty away ? 
— Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
Till we depart intrude not here :) 
That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine 

throws 
A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose 1 " 

Glad moment is it when the throng 

Of warblers in full concert strong 

Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 

The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus 

out. 
Met by the rainbow's fo m divine, 
Issuing from her cloudy shrine; — 
So may the thrillings of the lyre 
Prevail to further our desire, 
While to these shades a sister Nymph I 

call. 

" Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce, 
Come, youngest of the lovely Three, 
Submissive to the might of verse 
And the dear voice of harmony, 
By none more deeply felt than Thee 1" 
— I sang ; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
She hastens to the tents 
Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
A ir sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen ; 
But mark her glowing cheek, her vesturf 

green ! 
And, as if wishful to disarm 
Or to repay the potent Chaim, 
She bears the stringed lute of old romance, 
That cheered the trellised arbor's privacy, 
And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered 

hall. 
How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee ! 
So tripped the l\Tuse, inventress of the dance i 
So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Ew 

phrosyne ! 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTO^T. 



201 



But the ringlets of that head 

Why are they ungarlanded ? 

Why bedeck her temples less 

Ihan the simplest shepherdess? 

Is it not a brow inviting 

Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 

Which the myrtle would delight in 

With Idalian rose enwreathed ? 

But her humility is well content 

With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 

Flower of the winds, beneath her 

bosom worn — 
Yet more for love than ornament. 

Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and 

height ! 
For She, to all but those who love ^-er, shy. 
Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight ; 
Though where she is beloved and loves, 
Light as the wheeling butterfly -^he moves ; 
Her happy spirit as a bird is tree. 
That rifles blossoms on a tree, 
Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
Alas! how little can a moment show 
Of an eye where feelmg plays 
In ten thousand dewy rays ; 
A face o'er whicli a thousand shadows go ! 
—She stops— is fastened to that rivulet's 

-* side ; 
And there (while, with.sedater mien, 
O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
Tlieir birth-place in the rucky cleft 
She bends) at leisure may be seen 
Features to ol 1 ideal grace allied, 
Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
Fit countenance for th ,• soul of primal truth ; 
The bland composure of eternal youth ! 

What more changeful than the sea ? 

But over his great tides 

Fidelity presides ; 

And this lightdiearted Maiden constant is 

as he. 
High is her aim as heaven above, 
And wide as ether her good-will ; 
And. like the lowly reecl, her love 
Can tlririk its nurture from the scantiest rill: 
Insight as keen as frosty star 
Is to her charity no bar. 
Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
When she is, far from these wild places. 
Encircled by familiar faces. 

O the charm that manners draw, 
Nature, from thy g.Miuine law ! 
W. from what h .: hantl would do. 
Her voice v/ould utter, aught onsue 



Untoward or unfit ; 

She, in benign affections pure; 

In self-forgetfulness secure. 

Sheds round the transient harm or vague 

mischance 
A light unknown to tutored elegance : 
Hers is nut a cheek shame-stricken, 
But her blushes are joy-flushes ; 
And the fault (if fault it be) 
Only ministers to quicken 
Laughterdoving gayety, ^ 
And kindle sportive wit — 
Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free 
.As if siie knew that Obeion king of Fairy 
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint 

vagary, 
And heard his viewless bands 
Over their mirtliful triumph clapping hands. 

" Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
Touched by the skylark's eailiest note. 
Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
But wiiether in the semblance dresl 
Of Dawn — or Eve, fair vision of the west. 
Come with each anxious hope subdued 
By woman's gentle fortitude. 
Each grief, through meekness, settling into 

rest. 
— Or I would hail thee when some high- 
wrought page 
Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
Has raised thy spuit to a peaceiul stand 
Among the glories of a happier age." 

Her brow haMi opened on me— see it there, 

Brightening the umbiage of her hair ; 

So gleams the crescent moon, that k.ves 

To be descried through shady groves. 

Tenderest bloom is on her cheek ; 

Wisii not for a richer streak ; 

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye; 

Hut let thy love, upon that azure field 

Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield 

Its homage offered up in purity. 

What would'st thou more ? In sunny glade 

Or under leaves of thickest shade. 

Was such a stillness e'er diffused 

Since earth grew calm while angels mused? 

Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 

'J'o crush the mountain dew-drops — soon to 

melt 
On the flower's breast ; as if she felt 
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hua 
With all their fragrance, :dl their glistening, 
Call to the heart for inward listening— 
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens 

true 



102 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



Welcomed wisely ; though a growth 

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on 

As fitly spring from turf the mciurner weeps 

on — 
And without wrong are cropped the marble 

tomb to strew. 
Tlie Charm is over ; the mute Phantoms 

gone, 
Nor will return — but droop not, favored 

Youth ; 
'I'he ai)parition that before thee shone 
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
From these wild rocks tliy footsteps I will 

guide 
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried, 
And one of the bright Three become tliy 

happy Bride. 
1828. 



XLL 

THE WISHING-GATE. 

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old 
highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, 
which, time out of mind, has been called the 
Wisliiiig-^ate, froni a belief that wishes 
furiTied or indulged there have a favorable 
issue. 

Hope rules a land forever green : > 

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 

Are confident and gay ; '^ 

Clouds at her bidding disappear 
Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 

And Fi;ncy smooths the way. 

Not sucli the land of Wishes — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 

And thougiits with things at strife; 
Vet how forlorn, should yc depart, 
Ve superstitions of the hcarf, 

How poor, were human life ! 

When magic lore abjured its might, 
Ve did not forfeit one dear right, 

One tender claim abate ; 
Witness this symbol of your sway. 
Surviving near the public way, 

The rustic Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire not if the fairy race 

Shed kindly influence on the place. 

Ere northward they retired ; 
If here a warrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell ; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair. 
Composed with Nature's finest care, 



And in her fondest love — 
Peace to embosom and content — 
To overawe the turbulent, 

The selfish to reprove. 

Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
Rcchning on this moss-grown bar, 

Unknowing, and unknown, 
The infection of the ground partakes, 
Longing for his Beloved — who makes 

All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are here, 

The ancient faith disclaim .? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 
Desires whose course in folly ends, 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 

Here crave an easier lot ; 
If some have thirsted to renew 
A broken vow, or bind a true, 

With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
Upon the irrevocable past, 

Some Penitent sincere 
May for a worthier future sigh, 
While trickie^^ iroiii his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 

Tlie Worldling, pining to be freed 
I'^rom turmoil, who would turn or speed 

The current of his fate. 
Might stop before this favored scene. 
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wishing-gate. 

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
Is man, though loth such help to seek, 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And thirst for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws; 
Gr when the church-clock's knell profoiinc 
I'o Time's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes rejily ; 
Time pressing on with starry crest, 
To filial sleep upon the breast 

Of dread eternity. 
1828. 



THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 

'Tis gone — with old belief and dream 
That round it clung, and tempting scheme 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTON. 



203 



Released from fear and doubt ; 
And the bright landscape too must lie, 
By this blank wall, from every eye, 

Relentlessly shut out. 

Bear witness ye who seldom passed 
That op-'uing — but a look ye cast 

Upjn the lake below, 
What spirit-stirring power it gained 
From faith which here was entertained, 

Though reason might say no. 

Bhst is that ground, where, o'er the springs 
Ol iiistory,. Glory claps her wings, 

Fame sluds the exulting tear ; 
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
Unheard of is, like this, a book 

For modest meanings dear. 

It was in rooth a happy thought 
'J" hat grafted, on so fair a spot. 

So confident a token 
Of coming good : — the charm is fled ; 
InJidgent centuries spun a thread. 

Which one harsh day has broken. 

Alas ! for him who gave the word : 
Coiiklhe no symjxithy afford. 

Derived from earth or heaven, 
a' .J hearts so oft by hope betrayed ; 
Their very wishes wanted aid 

Which here was freely given .'' 

Where, tor the lovelorn maiden's wound. 
Will now so readily be found 

A balm of expectation ? 
Anxious for tar-off children, where 
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 

Ot home-felt consolation ? 

And not unfelt will prove the loss 
'Mid trivial care and petty cross 

And each day's shallow grief, 
Though the most easily beguiled 
Were oU among the first that smiled 

At their own fond belief. 

If still the reckless change we mourn, 
A reconciling thought may turn 

To harm that might lurk here, 
Ere judgment prompted from witliin 
Fit aims, with courage to begin. 

And strength to persevere. 

Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 

On wishes just and wise. 
That strenuous action follow both, 
And life be one perpetual growth 

Of heavenward enterprise. 



So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
All accidents of time and place : 

Whatever props may fail, 
Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
Njw glory o'er the mountain's head. 

Fresh beauty through the vale. 

That tuiih informing mind and heart, 
The simplest cottager may part, 

Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; 
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
The voice of grateful memory 

Shall bid a kind farewell ! 



XLIII. 

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 

A r^ocK there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there tlie glow-worms liang their lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights : 
And one coy Primrose to that rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown. 
Since first 1 spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in Nature's cliuin 

From highest heaven let dov.n ! 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 

Their fellowship renjw ; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 

That worketh out ot view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 

Though threatening still to fall ; 
The earth is constant to her sphere ; 

And God upliolds them all : 
So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads 

Her annual funeral. 

* » « « « 

Here closed the meditative strain ; 

But air breathed soft that day. 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered 

The sunny vale looked gay ; 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

1 gave -this after-lay. 
I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 

Like Thee, m field and grove 
Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 

Than tremblings that reprove 
Our vernal tendencies to hope, 

Is God's redeeming love \ 



204 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



That love which changed — for wan disease, 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneticent. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 

The reasoning bons of Men, 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal summer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 

Tliis prescience from on high. 
The faith that elevates the just. 

Before and when they die ; 
And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
A court for Deity. 
1831. 

o • 

XLIV. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments ! they judge not right 
Wlio deeir. that ye from open light 

Retire in fear of shame ; 
All lieavcn-born Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such. 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess, 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. 

Were mine in early days ; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart. 

And venture on your praise. ^ 

What though some busy foes to good, 
T(x) potent over nerve and blood. 

Lurk near you — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
Tills hides not from the moral Muse 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
Comes Faith that inauspicious hours 

Builds castles, not of air : 
Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill. 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift. 
That no philosophy can lift. 

Shall vanish, if ye please, 
Like morning mist : and, where it lay 
The spirits at your bidding play 

in gayety and ease. 



Star-guided contemplations move 
Through space, though calm, not raised 
above 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the v.ild, 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents. 
Number their signs or instruments.? 

A rainbow, a sunb-am, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 

Ye feelingly reprove ; 
And daily, in the conscious breast. 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives boundless 

scope 
To an exuUin;r Nation's hope, 

Oft, startled and made wise 
By your lovv-breiithed interpretings, 
Tlic simply-meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud ariav of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hatli been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive liall 
Wliat ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetclied from the shadowy world ! 

'Tis said that warnings ye dispense, 
ICmboldened by a keener sense ; 

That men have lived for whom. 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 

Truth shows a glorious face. 
While on that isthmus whicli commands 
The councils of both woildc, she stands. 

Sage Spirits 1 by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
Ail changes of tiie element. 

Whose wisdom fixed tiie scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

When lights of reason fail 
1830. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



^05 



XLV. 

VERNAL ODE. 

Rerum Natura tota est iiusquam magis quam 
in minimis.— Plin. Nat. Hist. 



Beneath the concave of an April sky, 
When all the fields with freshest green were 

(light, 
Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye 
That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
The torm and rsch habiliments of One 
Whose countenance bore resemblance to 

the san, 
When it reveals, in evening majesty, 
Features half lost amid their own pure 

light, 
Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
(Softening that bright effulgence by de- 
grees ) "*• 
Till he had reached a summit sharp and 

bare, 
Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the 

noontide breeze. 
Upon the apex of that lofty cone 
Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone ; 
Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east 
Suddenly raised by some enchanter's 

power. 
Where nothing was : and firm as some o!d 

Tower 
Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
Waves high, embellished by a gleaming 

shower. 

II. 

Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
Rested a golden harp; — he touched the 

strings ; 
And, after prelude of unearthly sound 
Poured through the echoing hills around, 
He sang— 

" No wintry desolations, 
Scorching blight or noxious dew. 
Affect my native habitations ; 
Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
Of man's inquiring gaze, but to his hope 
Imaged, though faintly, in the hue 
Profound of night's ethereal blue ; 
And in the aspect of each radiant orb; — 
Some fixed, some wandering with no timid 

curb; 
JJut wandering star and fixed, to mortal 



Blended in absolute serenity. 

And free from semblance of decline; — 

Fresh as if Evening brought their natal 

hour. 
Her darkness splendor gave, her silence 

power. 
To testify of Love and Grace divine. 



What if those bright fires 

Shine subject to decay, 

Sons haply of extinguished sires, 

Themselves to lose their light, or pass 

awcly 
Like clouds before the wind, 
Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand 

bestows. 
Nightly, on human kind 
That vision of endurance and repose. 
— And though to every draught of vita! 

breath 
Renewed throughout the bounds of earth 

or ocean. 
The melancholy gates of Death 
Respond with sympathetic motion ; 
Though all that feeds on nether air, 
Howe'er magnificent or fair. 
Grows but to perish, and entrust 
Its ruins to their kindred dust : 
Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care, 
Her procreant vigils Nature keeps 
Amid the unfathomable deeps ; 
And saves the peopled fields of earth 
From dread of emptiness or dearth. 
Thus, in their stations, hftmg tow'rd the 

sky 
Tlie foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
The shadow-cashing race of trees survive ; 
Thus, in the train of Spring arrive 
Sweet flowers :— what living eye hath 

viewed 
Their myriads ? — endlessly renewed, 
Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray ; 
Where'er the subtle waters stray ; 
Wherever sportive breezes bend 
Tlieir course, or genial showers descend! 
Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 
Theu' mansions unsusceptible of change. 
Amid your pleasant bowers to sit. 
And through your sweet vicissitudes tc 
range ! " 



O, nursed at happy distance from the cares 
Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! 
That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears^. 
And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 



2o6 



POEMS OF THE IM AGINATION. 



Prefer'st a sarland culled from purple 
heath, 

Or blooming thicket moist with morning 

dews ; 
Was such bright Suectacle vouchsafed to 

me ? 
And was it granted to the simple ear 
Of thy contented Votary 
Such melody to hear ! 
///;// rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn- 
tree, 
To lie and listen — till o'er-drowsed sense 
Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence — 
To the soft murmur of the vagrant Dee. 
— A slender sound ! yet hoary 'J'ime 
Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
Of all his years : — a company 
Of ages coming, ages gone ; 
{ Nations from before them sweeping, 
Regions in destruction steeping,) 
But every awful note in unison 
With that faint utterance, which tells 
Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, 
For the pure keeping of those waxen cells ; 
Where She — a statist prudent to confer 
Upon the common weal ; a warrior bcl J, 
Radiant all over with unburnished gold, 
And armed with living spear for mortal 
fight; 
A cunning forager 
That spreads no waste ; a social builder ; 

one 
In whom all busy offices unite 
With all hnc functions that afford delight- 
Safe through the winter storm in quiet 
dwells! 

V. 

And is She brought within the power 

Of vision? — o'er this tempting flower 

Hovering until the petals stay 

Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 

Observe each wing ! — a tiny van ! 

'J'he structure of her laden thigh, 

How fragile ! yet of ancestry 

Mysteriously remote and high ; 

Iligh as the imperial front of man ; 

The roseate bloom on woman's cheek ; 

The soaring eagle's curved beak ; 

The white plumes of the floating swan ; 

Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane 

Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 

At which the desert trembles.— Humming 

Bee! 
Thy sting was needless then, perchance 

unknown, 



The seeds of malice were not sown ; 

All creatures met in peace, from fierceness 

free. 
And no pride blended with their dignity, 
— Tears had not broken from their source; 
Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean 

den ; 
The golden years maintained a course 
Not undiversified though smooth and even ; 
We were not mocked with glimpse and 

shadow then, 
IhMght Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; 
And earth and stars composed a universal 

heaven ! 
1S17. 



XLVI. 

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

•' Not to tlie earth confiiud. 
Ascend to heaven." 

Where will they stop, those breathing 

Powers, 
The Spirits of the new-born flowers \ 
They wander with the breeze, they wind 
Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
Up from their native ground they rise 
In mute aerial harmonies ; 
From humble violet — modest thyme- 
Exhaled, the essential odors chmb, 
As if no space below the sky 
Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with 

pride 
If like ambition be tii,eir guide. 

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
Whils there the music runs to waste. 
With bounty more and more enlarged, 
Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
Give ear, O Man! to their appeal 
And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 

Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire I 
So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
While incense from the altar breathes 
Rich fragi'ance in embodied wreaths j 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATrON. 



207 



Or, flung from swinging censer, slirouds 
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic l""orms, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill, 
That on the service wait concealed 
One moment, and the next revealed 
— Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 
Of still or moving invigery — 
The iterated summons loud. 
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
Hurrying the busy streets along ? 

Alas! the sanctities combined 
By art to unsensualize the mind 
Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
And humors change, are spurned like 

weeds : 
The priests are from theirlHtars thrust ; 
Temples are levelled with the dust ; 
And solemn rites and awful forms 
Founder amid fanatic storms, 
\ et evermore, through years renewed 
In undisturbed vicissitude 
Of seasons balancing their flight 
On the swift wings of day and night, 
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
Chime forth unwearied canticles. 
And vapors magnify and spread 
The glory of the sun's bright head — 
Still constant in her worship, still 
Conforming to tlie eternal Will, 
Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
Divine monition Nature yields. 
That not by bread alone we live, 
Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
That every day should leave some part 
Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
So shall the seventh be truly blest. 
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 

1812. 



k 



XLVH, 

THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. 

WouLDST thou be taught, when sleep has 

taken flight, 
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, 
How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, 
And if to lure the truant back be well, 



Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke, 
That, answering to thy touch, will sound 

the hour ; 
r>etter provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock 
For service hung behind thy chamber-door; 
And in due time the soft spontaneous 

shock, 
The double note, as if with living power. 
Will to composure lead — or make thee blithe 

as bird in bower. 

List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo ! — oft tho' tempests 

howl. 
Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare. 
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering 

fowl. 
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air ; 
I speak with knowledge, — by that Voice 

beguiled, 
Thou wilt salute old memories as they 

throng 
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild 
Through fresh green fields, and budding 

groves among. 
Will make thee happy, happy as a child : 
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, 

and song, 
And breathe as in a woild where nothing 

can go wrong. 

And know — that, even for him who shuns 

the day 
And nightly tosses on a bed of pain ; 
Whose joys, from all but memory swept 

away, 
Must come unhopedfor, if they come again ; 
Know — that, for him whose waking 

thoughts, severe 
As his distress is sharp, would scorn my 

theme, 
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear 
In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 
Could fi(im sad regions send him to a dear 
Delightful land of verdure, shower and 

gleam, 
I'o mock the wandering Voice beside some 

haunted stream. 

O bounty without measure! wliile the t'racc 
Of Heaven dc^th in such wise, frotii hunibk-sl 

springs. 
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace 
A mazy course along familiar things, 
Well may our hearts have faith that bless- 
ings come, 
Streaming from founts above the starrv sk}', 
With angels when their own untroubled 
hcnie 



2o8 



rOF.MS OF THE IMAGINATrOj^. 



They leave, and speed on nightly embassy 
To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom ? 
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance 

try, 
And those tliat seek his help, and for his 

mercy sigli. 



XLVIII. 

TO THE CLOUDS. 

Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops 
Ascending from behind tlie motionless bruw 
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
O whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
\Vl\at seek ye, or what shun ye? of tlic 

gale 
Companions, fear ye to be left behind, 
Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
Contend ye with each otiier ? of the sea 
Children, thus post ye over vale and lieight 
To sink upon your mother's lap — and rest ? 
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine 

eyes 
Beheld in your impetuous march the like- 
ness 
Of a wide army pi-essing on to meet 
Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful 

aim ; 
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, com- 
pares 
Your squadrons to an endless flight of 

birds 
Aerial, upon due migration bound 
To milder climes ; or rather do ye urge 
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 
To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
Than these, and utter your devotion there 
With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubi- 
lant. 
And would ye, tracking your proud lord the 

Sun, 
Be present at his setting ; or the pomp 
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and 

stand 
Poismg your splendors high above the 

heads 
Of worshippers kneeling to their up risen 

God? 
Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness 

of speed ? 
Speak, silent creatures. — Thev arc gone, are 

fled. 
Buried together in yon gloomy mass 



That I( ads the middle heaven ; and deal 
• and bright 
And vacant doth the region which they 

thronged 
Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting 
Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
Down to that hidden gulf from which they 

rose 
To vanish — fleet as days and months and 

years, 
Fleet as tlie generations of mankind, 
P'ower, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
The lingering world, when time hath ceased \ 

to be. I 

But tlie winds roar, shaking the rooted ! 

trees. 
And see I a bright precursor to a train 
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 
That sullenly refuses to partake 
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 
Invisible, the long procession moves 
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
Which tliey are entering, welcome to mine 

eye 
That sees them, to my soul that owns in 

them. 
And in the bosom of the firmament 
O'er which they move, wherein they are 

contained, 
A type of her capacious self and all 
Her restless progeny. 

A humble walk 
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, 
A little hoary line and faintly traced. 
Work, shall we call it, of the Shepherd's 

foot 
Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both. 
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
Admit no bondage and my words have 

wings. 
Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp. 
To accompany the verse ? The mountain 

blast 
Shall be our hand of music ; he shall sweep 
The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy 

lake. 
And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds, 
And the v/ind loves them, and the gentle 

gales — 
Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn 
With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 
And moisten the parched lip" of thirsty 

flowers — 
Love them ; and every idle breeze of air ' 
Bends to the favorite burthen. Moon an4 

stars 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



2og 



Keep tlieir most solemn vigils when the 
Clouds • 

Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when 

they lie, 
'^s if some Protean art the change had 

wrought, 
In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep 
Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes 
And all degrees of b.^auty. O ye Light- 
nings ! 
Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the 

Sun — 
Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 
And type of man's far-darting reason, there- 
fore 
In old time worshipped as the god of verse, 
A blazing intellectual deity — -» 
Loves his own glory in their looks, and 

showers 
Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
Visions with all but beatific light 
Enriched — too transient were they not re- 
newed 
From age to age, and did not, while we 

gaze 
In silent rapture, credulous desire 
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not 

power 
To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain 

thought ! 
Yet why repine, created as we are 
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF 
THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

TuF. gentlest poet, with free thoughts en- 
dowed. 
And a true master of the glowing strain. 
Might scan the narrow province with dis- 
dain 
That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. 
This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim 
The daring thought, forget the name : 
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers 

might own 
As no unworthy partner in their flight 
Through seas of ether, where the ruffling 

sway 
Of nether air's rude billows is unknown : 



Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime 

they 
Through India's sp cy regions wing theit 

way. 
Might bow to as their Lord. What char 

acter, 
O sovereign Nature ! I appeal to the& 
Of all thy feathered progeny 
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair ? 
So richly decked in variegated down, 
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy 

brown. 
Tints softly with each other blended, 
Hues doubtfully begun and ended ; 
Or intershooting, and to sight 
Lost and recovered, as the rays cf light 
Glance on the conscious plumes touched 

here and there ? 
Full surely, when with such proud gifts •f 

life 
Began the pencil's strife, 
O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. 

A sense of seemingly presumptuous 

wrong 
Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; 
But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew 
A juster judgment from a calmer view ; 
And, with a spirit freed from discontcn'., 
'Hiankfully took an effort that was meant 
Not with God's bounty. Nature's love, to 

vie, 
Or made with hope to please that inward 

eye 
Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 
But to recall the truth by some faint trace 
Of power ethereal and celestial grace, 
That in the Jiving Creature find on earth a 

place. 



A JEWISH F.AMILY. 

(in a small valley OPPOSITF. ST. GOAR, 
UPON THR RIIINK.) 

Genius of Rnjihael ! if thy wings 

Miglit bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen. 
Thou would'st forego the neighboring 
Rhine, 

And all his majesty — 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. 



2TO 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIY. 



The Mother — her tliou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she cunie 
To dwell tliese ri/ted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An inia'^e, too, of that sweet Boy, 

'J"hy inspirations ;^ive — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes, 
That blend the nature of the star 

With tliat of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 

Uncounted rncnths are gone, 
Yet am I witli the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark-brown curls, tlie biow 

'I'he smootli transparent skin, 
Kefined, as with intent to show 

The holiness witliin ; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

liy blushes yet untamed ; 
Age faithful to tlie mother's knee. 

Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely Sisters still and sweet 

As flowers, Stand side by side; 
Thvj^ir soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian oi his pride : 
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 

Upon them not forlorn. 
Though of a lineage once abhorred, 

Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in sjiite 

Of poverty and wrong, 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

i'"rom Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Arount. the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past. 

And proucl Jerusalem ! 
1828. 



ON THE P0\V1:R OF SOUND, 

AR(;uMr.\T. 

riie Ear ad(lrps<^e<l, n-. occiii'ied by a spiritual 
functionary, in coiniiiunioii with sounds, indi- 
vidual, or combined with studied liarniony.— 
Sources and effects of those sounds (to the 
close of 6tli Stanza).— The power of music, 
whence proceedinir, exemplified in the idiot. 
-M>ngui of music, and its effect in early 



ages — how produced (to the middle of loth 
.Stanza). — The mind recalled to sounds 
acting casually and severally. — Wish uttered 
(nth Stanza) that these could be united into 
a sclieme or system for moral interests and 
intellectual contemplation.— (Stanza 12th. i 
The Pythagorean theory of numbers and 
nuir,ic, with their supposed power over ihj 
motions of the universe — imaginations conso- 
nant with such a theory. — Wish expressed 
('n I ith Stanza) realized, in some degree, by 
die representation cf a 1 sounds under the 
form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last 
Stanza) the destruction ( f earth and the plaiv 
etavy system — the survival of audible har- 
mony, and its sujiport in the Divine Naturci 
as revealed in Holy Writ. 

I. 

Ti'Y functions are ethereal, 
As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
^' 'rgan of vision ! And a spirit aerial 
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark an J 

blind ; 
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
i'o enter than oracidar cave ; 
Strict passage, through which sighs are 

brought. 
And whispers for the heart, th.ir slave ; 
And shrieks, that revel in abise 
Of shivering ffesh : and warbled air, 
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
The chains of fren/.y, or eiUice a smile 
Into tlie ambush of despair ; 
Hosannas pealing clown the long-drawn 

aisle, 
And requiems answered by the pulse that 

b ^ats 
Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 



The headlong streams and fountains 

;-.erve Thee, invisible Spijit, with untired 
jjowers : 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian moun- 
tains. 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand 
flowers. 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 

How fearful to the desert wide ! 

That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 

Calling a straggler to her side. 

Sliout, cuckoo! — let the vernal soul 

Co with thee to the frozen zone; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, 
toll! 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 



POEMS OF THE JMAGINATION. 



21 I 



To sailur's prayer breathed from a darkeninjr 

sea, 
Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 

III. 
Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 
And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
From rocky steep and rock-bestudded 

meadows 
Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, 

reborn — 
On with your pastime ! till the church-tower 

bells 
A greeting give of measured glee ; 
And milder echoes from their cells 
Repeat the bridal symphony. 
Then, or far earlier, Itt us love "^ 

Where mists are breaking uj) or gone, 
And from aloft look down into a cove 
Besprinkled witli a careless quire, 
Happy milk-maids, one by one 
Scattering a ditty each to lier desire, 
A liquid concert matchless by nice" Art, 
A stream as if from one full heart. 

IV. 

Blest be the song that brightens 

Tlie blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's 

mirth ; 
Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath. 

that lightens 
His duteous toil of furrowing the green 

earth. 
Fot the tired slave, Song lifts the languid 

oar, 
And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
'i'liat beautifies tiie fairest shore. 
And mitigates vhe harshest clime. 
Yon pilgrims see — in lagging file 
Tliey move ; but soon the appointed way 
A coral Ave Marie shall beguile, 
And to their hope the distant shrine 
(i listen with a livelier ray : 
Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
VViio from the well-spring of his own clear 

breast 
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 

V. 

When civic renovation 

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
Best eloquence avails not. Inspiration 
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
Piping through cave and battlemented 

tower ; 
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
That voice of Freedom, in its power 
Of prumistb, shrill, wild, and sweet 1 



Who, from a martial paccani, spreads 
Incitements of a battle-day. 
Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plume- 
less heads ? — 
Even she whose Lydian airs inspire 
Peaceful striving, gentle play 
Of timid hope and innocent desire 
Shot from the dancing Graces, as they mova 
Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 

VI. 

How oft along thy mazes, 

Regent of sound, have dangerous passions 

^ trod ! 
O Thou, through whom the temple rings 

with praises, 
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of 

God, 
Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
Thy votar'»2s, wooingly resigned 
To a voluptuous influence 
That taints the purer, better, mind ; 
But lead sick Fancy to a harp, 
That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
Soothe it into patience, — stay 
The uplifted arm of Suicide ; 
And let some mood of thine in firm array 
Knit every thought the impending issue 

needs, 
Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 

VII. 

As Conscience, to the centre 

Of being, smites with irresistible pain, 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's braui, 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet 

hurled— 
Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
And then agliast, as at the world 
Of reason partially let in 
By concords vvindmg with a sway 
Terrible for sense and soul ! 
Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dia- 

may. 
Point not these mysteries to an Art 
Lodged above«the starry pole ; 
Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beautv. 

Truth, 
With Order dwell, in endless youth ? 

VIII. 

Oblivion may not cover 
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time, 
Orphean Insi^^ht! truth's undaunted lovrr, 
To the first leagues of tutored passion cliinU 



2t2 



POEMS OF THE /AfACrAATTOI^. 



When Music deigned within this grosser 

sphere 
Her subtle essence to enfold, 
And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
Softer tlian Nature's self could mould. 
Vet strcniioiis was the infant Age: 
Art, daring because souls could feel, 
Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
Of rapt imagination sped her march 
Through the realms of woe and weal : 
Hell to the lyre bowed low; the upper arch 
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic 

verse 
Her wan disasters could disperse. 



The Gift to king Amphion 

That walled a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream : — thy skill, Arion ! 

Could humanize the creatures of the sea, 

Where men were nionst'^rs. A last grace he 

craves, 
Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
And listening dolphins gather round. 
Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 
And singing, while the accordant hand 
Sweeps his harp, the mastc r rides ; 
So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
And he, with his preserver, shining star- 
bright 
In memory, through silent night. 



The pipe of Pan. to shepherds 

Couched in the shadow of Ma?nalian pines. 

Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the 

leopards 
That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines. 
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
This way and that, with wild flowers crowned. 
To life, to life give back thine ear : 
Ye who are longing to be rid 
Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
Echoed from the cofihn-lid ; 
The convict's summons in the steeple's knell: 
" The vain distress-gun,'' from a leeward 

shore. 
Repeated— heard, and heard no more I 



i'or terror, joy, or pity. 
Vast is the compass and the sv;ell of notes 
From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city 
Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
Far as the woodlands — with the trill to 

blend 
Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
Might tempt an angel to descend, 
While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
Ye wandering Utterances, has earth ntf 

scheme, 
No scale of moral music— to unite 
Powers that survive but in the faintest 

dream 
Of memory? — O that ye might btoop to bear 
Chains, such precious chains of sight 
As labored minstrelsies through ages weai \ 
O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 

XII. 

By one pervading spirit 

Of tones and numbers all things are con- 
trolled, 

As sages tautdit, where faith was found to 
merit 

Initiation in that mystery old. 

The heavens, whose aspect makes our 
minds as still 

As they th -mselves appear to be, 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towering headlands, crowned with mist, 

Their feet among the billows, know ■ 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal Air, 

Ever waving to and fro. 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the Seasons in their 
round ; 

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

XIJI, 

Break forth into thanksgiving. 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords,, 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of 

words! 
Nor hushed be service from the lowing meacL 
Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 
Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
The six-days* Work, by flaming SeraphiiB 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



213 



Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting tlirough one valley calls, 

Ail worlds, all natures, mood and measure 

keep 
For praise and ceaseless gratiilation, poured 
Into the ear of God, their Lord 1 



A Voice to Light gave Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born chron- 
icler ; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foresee- 
ing, - V 

\n(l sweep away life's visionary stir; 



The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast fur deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied, 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more tlian moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears 

With her smootli tones and discords just, 

Tempted into rapturous strife, 

Tiiy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth 

be dust 
And vanish, though the heavens dissolvei 

her stay 
Is in the Word that shall not cass aw<iy. 



ROAD SONG. 



Constance D. Mackey. In the Craftsman. 
These to be thankful for a friend, 
A work to do, a way to wend. 
And these in which to take delight: 
The wind that turns the poplars white 
Wonder and gleam of common things- 
Sunlight upon a sea gull's Avings, 
Odors of earth and dew-drenched lawns 
The pageantry of darks and dawns; 
Blue vistas of a city street 
At twilight, music, passing feet; 
The thrill of spring, half joy, half pain, 
The deep voice of the autumn rain- 
Shall we not be content with these 
Imperishable mysteries. 
And. Jocund-hearted, take our share 
Of joy and pain, and find life fair? 
Wayfarers on a road where we 
Set forth each day right valiantly; 
Expectant, dauntless, blithe, content 
To make the great experiment. 



PETER BELL. 

A TALE. 

What's in a Name ? 
Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cssar! 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., ETC. ETC. 
Mv Dear Friend, 

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now iiitioduce to youi iiotn-v 
and to that of the Public, has, in its Maiuiscniit state, nearly survived its minority .—io\ it 
first saw tlie light in the suainier of 1798. During tins long interval, pains have been taken at 
dilferent times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or, rather, to 
fit It for MVm^ per»ianc>itiy a station, however lunnbic, in the Literature of our Country. This 
lias, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been suf- 
ficiently laborious to prove that I deem tlie Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the 
attainment of excellence 111 it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit 
by aiy man wln', with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. 
The Poem of Peter l^eil, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the 
Imagination not only does not require for its exeicise the intervention of supernatural agency, 
but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty mny be called forth as imperiously and 
for kindred resu.ts of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic jMobabihty, in the 
humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was virhxen, you have exhibited most 
splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledg- 
ment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural ; and 1 nm persuaded it will be ad- 
mitted that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from 
contrast or congruity, is not an inappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony 
of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (10 use your 
own words) for evil and for good ; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health 
may be granted you to complete the many important works in winch you are engaged, and with 
high respect. Most faithfully yours, William WoKDiWOKTH. 

Rydal Mount, April -j, 1819. 



PROLOGUE. 

There's something in a fiyinc; horse, 
There's something in a huge balloon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
Shaped like the crescent-moon. 

And now 1 have a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon : 

Fast througli the clouds my boat can sail ; 

r>ut if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 

The woods, my Friends, are round you roar- 
ing* 
Rockmg and roaring like a sea ; 
The noise of danger's in your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me ! 
(214) 



Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
The pointed horns of my canoe; 
And, did not pity touch my breast 
To see how ye are all distrest, 
Till my ribs ached, I'd lai.gh at you I 



Away we go, my Boat and I — 
Frail man ne'er sate m such another ; 
Whether among the winds we strive, 
Or deep into the clouds we dive, 
Each is contented with the other. 



Away we go — and what care we 
For treasons, tumults, and for wars f 
We are as calm in our delight 
As IS the crescent-moon so bright 
Among the scattered stars. 



PETER BELL. 



2IS 



Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 

I Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her ; 

I Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull— 
We pry among them all ; have shot 
Higii o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
Covered from top to toe with scars ; 
Such company 1 like it not I 

The towns in Saturn are decayed. 

And melancholy Spectres throng them ;— , 

The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 

Each other in the vast abyss. 

With joy 1 sail among them. 

Swift Mercury resounds witli mirth. 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain, 
That little Earth of ours ? 

Then back to Earth, the dear green 

Earth :— 
Whole ages if I here should roam, 
The world for my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be ; 
I've left my heart at home. 

See ! there she is, the matchless Earth ! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
Through the gray clouds : the Alps are 

here. 
Like waters in commotion! 

Von tawny slip is Libya's sands : 

That silver thread the river Dnieper ; 

And look, where clothed in brightest green 

Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen : 

Ye fairies, from all evil keep her I 

And see the town where I was born ! 
Arcund those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols: — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never ; — 
How tunefully the forests ring! 
To hear the eartli's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang forever ! 

" Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 

" Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Witlun a living Boat to sit, 

And make no better use of it ; 

A Boat tv/in-sister of the crescent-moon ! 



Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so faint a heart before; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
— Such din sha'l trouble them no more. 

These nether precincts do not lack 
Charms of their own ; — then come with mi« 
I want a conrade, and for you 
Tliere's nothing that I would not do, 
Nauglit is there that you shall not sec. 

Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
■We'll sport amid the boreal morning ; 
Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
And now the stars adorning. 

I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray; 
Fair is that land as evening skies. 
And cool, though in the depth it lies 
Of burning Africa, 

Or we'll into the realm of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things ; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings ! 

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore. 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore ! " 

" My little vagrant Form of light. 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part • 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces— then adieu! 

Temptation lurks amor.g your words : 
But, while these pleasures you're pursuit.^ 
Without impediment or let, 
No wonder if you quite forget 
What on the earth is doing. 

There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen with a faith Sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed i 
T!un Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

Go — (but the world's a sleepy world, 
And 'tis, 1 fear, an age too late) 
lake with you some ambitious Youth 1 
I'or, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 



2i6 



PETER BELL. 



Lnncj have T loved what I behold, 
Tlie night that cahns, tlie day that cheers 
The common growth of mother-earth 
Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 

The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
1 sliall not covet for my dower, 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may stray, 
And with a soul of power. 

These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to sootlie, or elevate ? 
What nobler marvels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find, 
May find or there create .'' 

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
What spell so strong as guilty Fear! 
Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 

But grant my wishes, — let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height ; 
Then take tliy way, adventurous Skiff, 
More daring far than Hippogriff, 
And be thy own delight ! 

To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
Beside him in tlie cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 

With these are many more convened ; 
They know not 1 have been so far ;— 
1 see them there, in number nine, 
Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine ! 
1 see them — there they are ! 

There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter : 
And, ere the light of evening fail, 
To them 1 must relate the Tale 
Of Peter Bell the Potter." 

Off flew the Boat — away she flees. 
Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
And 1, as well as I was ;ible, 
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
Limped on with sore vexation. 

" O, here he is ! " cried little Bess — 
She saw me at the garden door ; 
•'We've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng, 
Full nine of them or more I 



" Reproach me not — your fears be still — 
Be thankful we again have met ; — 
Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well-remembered debt." 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wliolly rescued from the pale 
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; 
But, straight, to cover my confusion. 
Began the promised Tale. 

PART FIRST. 

All by the moonlight river side 
Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
The staff was raised to loftier height, 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck — and struck again. 

"Hold!" cried the Squire, " against the 

rules 
Of common sense you're surely sinning; 
This leap is for us all too bold ; 
Who Peter was, let that be told, 
And start from the beginning." 

" A Potter,* Sir, he was by trade,'' 

Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
'* And wheresoever he appeared, 
Full twenty times was Peter feared 
For once that Peter was respected. 

He, two and-thirty years or more, 
Had been a wild and woodland rover ; 
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest CornwrJl's rocky shore, 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum ; 
And he had been where Lincoln bell 
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell— 
A far-renowned alarum ! 

At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
And meiry Carlisle liad he been ; 
And ail along the lowlands fair. 
All through the bonny shire of Ayr; 
And far as Aberdeen. 

And he had been at Inverness ; 

And Peter, by the mountain-rills. 

Had danced his round with Highland 

lasses ; 
And he had lain beside his asses 
On lofty Cheviot Hills : 

* In the dialect of the North, a hawker of 
earthenware is tlius designated. 



PETER BELL. 



217 



And he had trudged through Yorkshire 

dales, 
Among tlie rocks and winding scars; 
Where deep and low the hamlets Ue 
Beneath tlieir little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars : 

And all along the indented coast, 
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam ; 
Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
Sure never man like him did roam ! 

As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ;— 
He travelled here, he travelled there ;— 
But not the value of a hair 
Was heart or head the better. 

He roved among the vales and stj earns, 
In the green wood and hollow df /I ; 
They were his dwellings night and day,— 
But Nature ne'er could find the way 
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 

In vain, through every changeful year, 
Did Nature lead him as before . 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more. 

Small change it made in Peter's heart 
To see his gentle panniered tram 
With more than vernal pleasure feeding 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Us eavliest green along the lane. 

In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was sj^ead. 
When Peter on some A]iril morn, 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 

At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
He lay beneath the branches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart : he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 

On a fair prospect some have looked 
And felt, as I have heard them tay, 
As if the moving time had been 
A thing as steadfast as the scene 
On which they gazed themselves away. 

Within the breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place; 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-crv pursued, 
> As ever ran a felon's race. 



Of all that lead a lawless life. 

Of all that love their lawless lives. 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. 

Nay, start not ! — wedded wives '- and 
twelve ! [him. 

But how one wife could e'er come ncai 
In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his hear! 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Pettr Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; • 

In his whole figure and his mien 
A savage character was seen 
Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 

Had Peter joined whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
Of courage you saw little there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 

He had a dark and sidelong walk. 
And long and slouching was his gait; 
Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
You might perceive, his spirit cold 
Was playing with some inward bait. 

His forehead wrinkled was and furred ; 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinking of his ' whens ' and ' hows, " 
And half, by knitting of his brows 
Beneath the glaring sun. 

There was a hardness in his cheek, 
There was a hardness in his eye, 
As if the man had fixed his face, 
In many a solitary place, 
Against the wind and open sky I 



One night (and now my little Bess I 
We've reached at last the promised Tale). 
One beautiful Novanber night. 
When the full moon was shining bright 
Upon the rapid river Swale, 



2i8 



PETER BELL. 



Along the river's windincj banks 
Peter was travelling all alunc ; — 
Wliether to buy or sell, or led 
By pleasure running in his head, 
To me was never known. 

He trudged along through copse and brake. 
He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; 
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
And for the stars he cared as little, 
And for the murmuring tiver Swale, 

But, chancing to espy a path 
That promised to cut short tiic way; 
As many a wiser man hatli done, 
He left a trusty guide for one 
That might his steps betray. 

To a thick wood he soon is brought 
\Vhcr» cheerily his course he weaves, 
And whistling loud may yet be hc.ird. 
Though often buried, like a bird 
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
And on he drives with checks that burn 
In downright fury and in wrath ; — 
There's little sign the treacherous path 
Will to the road return ! 

The path grows dim, and dimmer still ; 
Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 
With all the sail that he can carry, 
Till brouglit to a deserted quarry — 
And there the pathway ends. 

He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 

Massy and black, before him lay ; 

But through the dark, and through the 

cold, 
And through the yawning fissures old, 
Did Peter boldly press his way 

Right through the quarry : — and behold 
A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
Where blue and gray, and tender green, 
Together make as sweet a scene 
As ever human eye did view. 

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
A little field of meadow ground ; 
But field or meadow name it not ; 
Call it of earth a small green plot, 
With rocks encompassed round. 

The Swale flowed under the gray rocks, 
But he flowed quiet and unseen ; — 
Y ni need a strong and stormy g.ile 
To bring tlie noises of tlic Swale 
To that green spot, so calm and green I 



And is there no one dwelling Iiere, 
No hermit with his beads and glass ? 
And does no little cottage look 
Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 
Does no one live near this green grass t 

Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now has reached the skirting trees', 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass. 

" A prize ! " cries Peter — but he first 
Must spy about him far and near: 
There's not a single house in sight. 
No woodman's-hut, no cottage lights 
Peter, you need not fear ! 

There's nothing to be seen but woods, 
And rocks that spread a loary gleam, 
And this one IJeast, that from the bed 
Of the green meadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 

His head is with a halter bound; 
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
Upon the Creature's back, r nd plied 
Witii ready heels his shagg si ^; 
But still the Ass his station Kept. 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
Would have pulled up an iron ring ; 
But still the heavy-headed Thing 
Stood just as he had stood before ! 

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
" There is some plot against me laid ;" 
Once more the little meadow ground 
And all the hoary cliffs around 
He cautiously surveyed. 

All, all is silent — rocks and wc ods, 
All still and silent — far and near! 
Only the Ass, with motion dull. 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turns round his long left ear. 

Thought Peter, What can mean all this? 
Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
— Once more the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turned round his long left ear, 

Suspicion ripened into dread, 
Yei with deliberate action slow. 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon tlie sounding hide, 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 



PETER BELL. 



219 



T!ic poor Ass staggered with the shock ; 
And then, as if to take his ease, 
In quiet uncomplaining mood, 
Upon the spot wliere he had stood, 
Dropped gently down i;pon his knees ; 

As gently on his side he fell ; 
^nd by the river's brink did lie ; 
A,nd, while he lay like one that mourned, 
J'he patient Beast on Peter turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

'Twas but one miid. reproachful look, 
A look more tender tlian severe: 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
lie turned the cyc-ba!l in his head 
To.vards the smooth river deep and clear. 

Upon the Reast the sajjling rings ; 

}iis lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred; 

lie gave a groan, and tiien another, 

Ui duit which went before the brother, 

And then he gave a third. 

All by the moonlight river side 
He g:ive three miserable groans: 
And not till now hath Peter seen 
How gaunt the Creature is, — how Itan 
And sharp his staring bones I 

Willi legs stretched out and stiff he lay : — 
No word of kind commiseration 
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue : 
With haid contempt his heart was wrung. 
With hatred and vexation. 

The meagre beast lay still as death ; 
And Peter's lips with fury quiver ; 
Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
Pll fling your carcass like a log 
Head-foremost down the river ! " 

An impious oath confirmed the threat — 
Whereat from the earth on wliich he lay 
To all the echoes, south and north, 
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
A long and clamorous bray ! 

This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
Seems like a note of jov to strike, — 
joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
Hut in the echo of the rocks 
Was something Peter did not like, 

\Miether to cheer his coward breast, 
()! tliat he could not break the chain. 
In tl;is serene and solemn hour. 
Twined tound him by demoniac power, 
To the blind work he turned aiiain. 



Among the rocks and winding crags ^ 
Among the mountains far away : 
Once more the Ass did lengthen out 
More ruefully a deep-drawn shcut, 
The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray I 

What is there now in Peter's heart ? 
Or whence the might of tliis strange sound ? 
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 
Th.e broad blue lieavens appeared to glimmer, 
And the rocks staggered all around— 

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped! 
Threat has he none to execute ; 
" If any one should cnme and s?e 
That J am here, they'll think," quoth he, 
•' I'm helping this poor dying brute." 

He scans the Ass from limb to limb, 
And ventures now to uplift his eyes ; 
More -steady looks the moon, and clear. 
More like themselves the rocks appear 
And touch more quiet skies. 

His scorn returns — his hate revives ; 
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
With malice — that again takes flight; 
For in the pool a startl.ng sight 
Meets him, among the inverted trees. 

^s it the Moon's distorted face ? 
The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
Is it a gailows there portrayed.'' 
Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
Is it a coffin, — or a shroud t 

A grisly idol hewn in stone? 
Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies? 
Such as pursue their feared vagaries 
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? 

Is it a fiend that to a stake 

Of fire his desperate self is tctlnring ? 

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 

In solitary ward or cell. 

Ten thousand miles from all his bicthrcn J 

Never did pulse so quickly throb. 
And never heart so loudly panted : 
He looks, he cannot choose but look; 
Like some one reading in a book — 
A book that is enchanted. 

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell ! 
He will be turned to iron soon. 
Meet Statue for the court of Fear \ 
His hat is w';^ — and every hair 
Bristles, and whitens in the moon.' 



220 



PETER BELL. 



He looks, he ponders, looks again ; 

He sees a motion — hears a groan ; 

His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 

He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 

And back he falls, as if his life were tlown! 

PART SECOND. 

We left our Hero in a trance, 
Beneatli the alders, near the river , 
The Ass is by the river-side, 
And, where the feeble breezes glide, 
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver 

A happy respite ! but at length 
He feels the glimmering of tiie moon ; 
VV.ikes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing— 
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
Into a second swoon ! 

He lifts his head, he sees his staff ; 

He touch -s— 'tis to him a treasure! 

Faint recollection seems to tell 

Tliat he is yet where mortals dwell — 

A thouglit received with languid pleasure ! 

His head upon his elbow propped, 
Becoming less and less perplexed. 
Sky-ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
And tlien— upon the glassy flood 
His wandering eye is nxed. 

Thought he, that is the face of one 
In Ills last sleep securely bound ! 
So toward tiie stream his head he bent, 
And downward tlirust his staff, intent 
The river's depth to sound. 

A'bTr— like a tempest shattered bark. 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
.And in a moment to tiie verge 
Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 

His staring bones all shake with joy, 
And close by Peter's side he stands, 
While Peter o'er the river bends. 
The little Ass his neck extends. 
And fondly licks his hands. 

Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 
Such life is in liis limbs and cars, 
Tiiat Peter P>eil, if he had been 
The veriest cov/ard ever seen. 
Must now have thrown aside his fears 

The Ass looks on — and to his work 
Is Peter quietly resigned ; 
He touches here— he touches thore — 
And now among the de;id man's hair 
His sapling Peter has entwined. 



He pulls — and looks — and pulls again ; 
.And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
'I'lie man who had been four days dead, 
Head-foremost from the river's bed 
Uprises like a ghoSt ! 

And Peter draws him to dry land ; 
.'\nd througli tlie brain of Peter pass 
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster ; 
" No doubt," quoth he, " he is the Mastci 
Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 

The meagre Shadow that looks on — 
Wliat would he now ? what is he doing ? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing ; 

But no — tliat Peter on his back 
Must mount, he sliows well as he can : 
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
I'll do what he would have me do, 
In pity to this poor drowned man. 

With that resolve he boldly mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass ; 
And then, without a moment's stay, 
That earnest Creature turned away, 
Leaving the body on the grass. 

Intent upon his faithful watch. 
The Beast four days and nights had past; 
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen. 
And there the Ass four days had Ijcen, 
Nor ever once did break his fast: 

Yet firm his step, and stout his lieart ; 
The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
Is reached ; but tiiere the trusty guide 
Into a thicket turns aside. 
And deftly ambles towards the south. 

When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
And Peter honestly might say, 
The like came never to his ears, 
Though he has been, full thirty years, 
A rover— night and day ! 

'Tis not a plover of the moors, 

'Tis not a bittern of the fen ; 

Nor can it be a barking fox, 

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks 

Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! 

The Ass is startled — and stops sliort 
Right in tiie middle of the thicket; 
And Poter, wont to whi.Ntle loud 
Wlictlicf alone or m a crowd, 
Is silent as a silent cricket. 



PETER BELL. 



221 



What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
This cry — th?t rings along the wood, 
'I'll is cry — that floats adovvn the flood, 
Conies from the entrance of a cave : 

I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
And if I had the power to say 
How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
Your heart would be as sad as Iiis 
Till you had kissed his tears away ! 

Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
Ail bright with berries ripe and red, 
Into tlie cavern's mouth he peeps ; 
Thence back into the moonlight creeps ; 
Whom seeks he — whom ? — the silent dead 

His father ! — Him doth he require — 
Him hath he sought with fruitless j a.ns, 
Among the rocks, behind the trees ; 
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
Now running o'er the open plains. 

And hither is he come at last, 
When he through such a day has gone, 
By this dark cave to be distrest 
Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
Hovering around witl) dolorous moan ! 

Of that intense and piercing cry 
The listening Ass conjectures well ; 
Wild as it is, he there can read 
Some intermingled notes that plead 
With touches irresistible. 

But Peter— when he saw the Ass 
Not only stop but turn, and change 
The cherished tenor of his pace 
Tiiat lamentable cry to chase — 
It wrought in him conviction strange ; 

A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
And this poor slave wiio loved him well, 
Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
Some visitation worse then all 
Which ever till this night befell. 

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home. 
Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
But, while he climbs the woody hill. 
The cry grows weak — and weaker still ; 
And now at last it dies away. 

So with his freight the Creature turns 
Into a gloomy grove of beech. 
Along the shade with footsteps true 
Descending slowly, till the two 
The open moonliglit reach. 



And there, along t»he narrow dell, 
A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
A length of green and open road — 
As if it from a founta n flowed — 
Winding away between the fern. 

The rocks that tower on either side 
Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
And mosques, and spires, and abb:'y windows* 
And castles all with ivy green ! 

And, while the Ass pursues his way, 
Along this solitary dell, 
As pensively his steps advance. 
The mosques and spires change counte- 
nance, ^ 
And look at Peter Bell ! 

That unintelligible cry 
Hath left him high in preparation, — 
Convinced that he, or soon or late, 
This very night will meet his fate — 
And so he sits in expectation! 

The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
With the green path ; and now lie wends 
Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
In undisturbed immensity 
A level plain extends. 

But whence this faintly-rustling sound 
By which the journeying pair are chased ? 
— A withered leaf is close behind, 
Light plaything for the sportive, wind 
Upon that solitary waste. 

When Peter spied the moving thing, 
It only doubled his distress ; 
" Where there is not a bush or tree. 
The /ery leaves they follow niL — 
So huge hath been my wickedness!" 

To a close lane they now are come, 
Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
Moves on without a moment's stop, 
Nor once turns round his head to crop 
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 

Between the hedges as they go, 
The white dust sleeps upon the lane ; 
And Peter, ever and anon 
Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, 
Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 

A stain — as of a drop of blood 

By moonlight made more faint and wan , 

Ha! why these sinkings of despair ? 

He knows not how tlie blood cumes there — 

And Peter is a wicked man. 



222 



PETER BELL. 



At iensjth he spies a bleeding wuund, 
Where he had struck the Ass's head; 
He sees the blood, knows wliat it is,— 
A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
lUit then it quickly fled ; 

Of him whom sudden death had seized 
H." thought,— of thee, O faithful Ass ! 
And once again those ghastly pains 
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins, 
And through his brain like lightning pass. 

PART THIRD. 

I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
Tliough given to sadness and to gloom, 
And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
It chanced that bf a taper's light 
This man was reading in his room; 

Bending, as you or I might bend 
At night o'er any pious book, 
When sudden blackness overspread 
The snow-white page on which he read, 
And made the good man round him look. 

The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
And to his book he turned again ; 
— The light had left the lonely taper, 
And formed itself upon the paper 
Into large letters — bright and plain ! 

The godly book was in his hand — 
And, on the page, more black than coal, 
Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
A -ivord — which to his dying day 
I'erplexed the good man's gentle soul. 

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, 
Did never from his lips depart : 
But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
It brought full many a sin to light 
Out of the bottom of his heart. 

Drend Spirits ! to confound the meek 
Why wander from your course so far. 
Disordering color, form and stature! 
— Let good men feel the soul of nature, 
And see things as they are. 

/et, potent Spirits ! well I know, 
How ye, that play with soul and sense, 
Are not unused to trouble friends 
Of goodness, for most gracious ends — 
And this I speak in reverence. 

But might I give advice to you. 
Whom in my fear I love so well ; 
From men of pensive virtue go, 
Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
On lieaEts like that of Peter Bell. 



Your presence often have I felt 

In darkness and the stormy night; 

And, with like force, if need there be, 

Ve can put forth your agency 

When earth is calm, and lieaven is bright 

Then, coming from the wayward world, 
That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, 
What may be done with Peter Bell I 

— O, would that some more skilful voice 
My further labor might prevent ! 
Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
I feel that I am all unfit 
For such high argument. 

I've played, I've danced, with my narration' 
I loitered long ere I began : 
Ye waited then on my good pleasure; 
Pour out indulgence still, in measure 
As liberal as ye can ! 

Our Travellers, ye remember well, 
Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
And Peter many tricks is trying, 
And many anodynes applying, 
To ease his conscience of its pain. 

By this his heart is lighter far; 
And, finding that he can account 
So snugly for that cnmson stain, 
Ilis evil spirit up again 
Docs like an empty bucket mount. 

And Peter is a deep logician 

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 

" Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet,'' quo^b 

he, 
" This poor man never, but f( r me. 
Could have had Christian bunal. 

And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 
That here has oeen some wicked dealing ; 
No doubt the devil in me wrought ; 
I'm not the man who could have thought 
An Ass like this was v/orth the stealing ! " 

So from his pocket Peter takes 
His shining horn tobacco-box ; 
And, in a light and careless way, 
As men who with their purpose play, 
Upon the lid he knocks. 

Let them v/hose voice can stop the cloudSj 
I Wiiose cunning eye can see the wind, 
I Tell to a curious world the cause 
I Why, making here a sudden pause, 
j The Ass turned round his head, aik^ 
irrinned. 



PETER DELL. 



32' 



Appalling process! I have marked 
The like on hcatii, in lonely wood ; 
And, verily, have seldom met 
A spectacle more hid.-ous — yet 
It suited Peter's pr*»sent mood. 

And, grinning in Lis turn, his teeth 
■ie in jocose defiance showed — 
A'hen, to upset his spiteful mirth, 
A murmur, pent withm the earth. 
In the dead earth beneath the road, 

Rolled audibly ! it swept along, 
A muffled noise— a rumbling sound ! — 
'Twas by a troop of miners made, 
Plying with gunpowder their trade, 
Some twenty fathoms underground. 

Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
If ever mortal. King or Cotter, 
Believed that earth was charged to quake 
And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 



N 



But, as an oak in breathless air 
Will stand though to the centre hewn : 
Or as tlie weakest things, if frost 
Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; 
o he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 



The Beast, bestriding thus, he reached 
A spot where, in a sheltering cove, 
A little chapel stands alone, 
With greenest ivy overgrown, 
And tufted with an ivy grove ; 

Dying insensibly away 
From human thouglits and purposes. 
It seemed — wall, window, roof and tower 
To bow to some transforming power, 
And blend with the surrounding trees. 

As ruinous a place it was, 
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 
That served my turn, when following still 
From land to land a reckless will 
I married my sixth wife ! 

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
And now is passing by an inn 
Brim-full of a carousing crew. 
That make, with curses not a few. 
An uproar and a drunken din. 

I cannot well express the thoughts 
Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
A stifling power compressed his frame, 
While-as a swimming darkness came 
Over that dull and dreary sound. 



For well did Petor know the sound , 
Tiie language of those drunken joys 
To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
But a few liours ago, had been 
A gladsome and a welcome noise. 

Now^ turned adrift into the past, 
He finds no solace in his course ; 
Like planet-stricken men of yore, 
He trembles, smitten to the core 
By strong compunction and remorse. 

But, more than all, his heart is stung 
To think of one, almost a child : 
A sweet and playful Highland girl, 
As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
As beauteous and as wild ! 

Her dwelling was a lonely house, 
A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
And she put on her gown of green, 
And left her mother at sixteen. 
And followed Peter Bell. 

But many good and pious thoughts 
Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray. 
Two long Scotch miles, through ram 03 

snow, 
To kirk she had been used to go, 
Twice every Sabbath-day. 

And, when she followed Peter Bell,' 
It was to lead an honest life ; 
For he, with tongue not used to falter, 
Had pledged his troth before the altar 
To love her as his wedded wife. 

A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
She drooped and pined like one forlorn; 
From Scripture she a name did borrov. ; 
Benoni, or the child of sorrow. 
She called her babe unborn. 

For she had learned how Peter lived, 
And took it in most grievous part ; 
She to the very bone was worn. 
And, ere that little child was born, 
Died of a broken heart. 

And now the Spirits of the Mind 
Are busy with poor Peter Hell ; 
Upon the rights of visual sense 
Usurping, with a prevalence 
More terrible than magic spell. 
Close by a brake of flowering furze 
(Above it shivering aspens play) 
He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
His very self in form and feature. 
Not four yards from the broad highway: 



224 



PETER BELL. 



And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
The Highland girl — it is no other ; 
And hears her crying as she cried, 
The very moment that she died, 
" My motiijr 1 oh my niotlier! '' 

The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
So grievous is h s heart's contrition ; 
With agony liis eye-balls ache 
While he beholds by the furze-brake 
This miserable vision ! 

Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
His peace hath no offence betrayed ; 
But now, while down that slope he wends, 
A voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
ReGounding from the woody glade : 

The voice, though clamc rous as a horn 

Re-echoed by a naked rock. 

Comes from that tabernacle — List ! 

Within, a ferven' Methodist 

Is preaching to no heedless flock! 

" Repent ! repent ! " he cries aloud, 
" V^.^'hile yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
To love the Lord with all your might; 
Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
And save your souls alive I 

Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
After the Babylonian harlot ; 
And, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
They shall be white as snow ! " 

Even as he passed the door, these words 
Did ]ilainly come to Peter's ears; 
And they such joyful tidings were, 
The joy was more than he could bear ! — 
He melted into tears. 

►ivveet tears of hope and tenderness ? 
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! 
His nerves, his sinews seem to melt r 
Through all his iron frame was felt 
A gentle, a relaxing, power ! 

Each fibre of his frame was weak ; 
Weak all the animal within ; 
But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
And gentle as an infant child. 
An infant that has known no sin. 



•'TIS said, meek Beast ! that, 

Heaven's grace, 
He not unmoved did notice now 
'i"he cross upon thy shoulder scored 
For lasting impress, by the Lord 
To whom all human-kind shall bow 



Memorial of his touch —that day 
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
Ei.cering the proud Jerusalem, 
by an immeasurable stream 
Of shouting people deified ! 

Meanwhile the persevering Ass 
Turned towards a gate that hung in viev 
Across a shady lane ; his chest 
Against the yielding gate he pressed 
And quietly passed through. 

And up the stony lane he goes ; 
No ghost more softly ever trod ; 
Among the stones and pebbles, ho 
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly. 
As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 

Along the lane the trusty Ass 

Went twice two hundred yards or moie, 

And no one could have guessed his aini,-- 

Till to a lonely house he came, 

And stopped beside the door. 

Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home! 
He listens — net a sound is heard 
Save from the trickling household rill ; 
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 

She to the Meeting-house was bound 
In hopes some tidings there to gather: 
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam ; 
She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
" My father ! here's my father ! " 

The very word was plainly heard. 
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother- 
Her joy was like a deep affright : 
And forth she rushed into the light, 
And saw it was another .' 

And, instantly, upon the earth, 
Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
Close to the Ass's feet she fell ; 
At the same moment Peter Bell 
Dismounts in most unhaj)py plight. 

As he beheld the Woman lie 
Breathless and motionless, tiie mind 
Of Petei sadly was confused : 
But, though tc such demands unused 
And helpless almost as the -.md, 

He raised her up : and, while he held 
Her body propped against his knee, 
The Woman waked— and when she spied 
The poor Ass standing by her side, 
She moaned most bitterly. 



PETER BELL. 



225 



" Oh ! God be praised — my heart's at ease — 

For he is dead — I know it well ! " 

— At this she wept a bitter flood ; 

And, in the best way that he could, 

His tale did Peter tell. 

He trembles — he is pale as death ; 

His voice is weak with perturbation; 

He tarns aside his head, he pauses ; 

Poor Peter, from a thousand causes, 

Is crippled sore in his narration. 

At length she learned how he espied 

The Ass in that small meadow-ground ; 

And that her husband now lay dead, 

Beside that luckless river's bed 

In wiiich he had been drowned. 

A piercing look the Widow cast 

Upon the Beast that near her stands; 

She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; 

She calls the poor Ass by his name, 

And wrings, and wrings her hands. 

" O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 

If he had died upon his bed 1 

He knew not one forewarning pain ; 

He never will come home again — 

Is dead, forever dead 1 " 

Beside the Woman Peter stands : 

His heart is opening more and more; 

A holy sense pervades his mind ; 

He feels what he for human kind 

Had never felt before. 

At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 

The Woman rises from the ground — 

"Oh, mercy ! something must be done. 

My little Rachel, you must run, — 

Some willing neighbor must be found. 

Make haste — my little Rachel — do, 

The first you meet with — bid him come, 

Ask him to lend his horse to-night. 

And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, 

Will help to bring the body home.'' 

Away goes Rachel weeping loud; — 

An Infant, waked by her distress. 

Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 

And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 

" Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 

And now is Peter taught to feel 

That Man's heart is a holy thirg ; 

And Nature, through a world of death, 

Breathes into him a second breath, 

More searching than the breath of spiing. 

Upon a stone the Woman sits 

In agony of silent grief — 

From his own thoughts did Peter start ; 

He longs to press her to his heart, 

From love that cannot find relief. 



But roused, as if through every limb 

Had past a sudden shock of dread, 

The Mother o'er the threshold flics 

And up the cottage stairs she hies. 

And on the pillar lays her burning head 

And Peter turns his steps aside 

Into a shade of darksome trees, 

Where he sits down, he knows not how. 

With his hands pressed against his brow, 

His elbows on his tremulous knees. 

There, self-involved, does Peter sit 

Until no sign of life he makes. 

As if his mind were sinkmg deep 

Through years tliat have been long asleep! 

The trance is passed away— he wakes ; 

He lifts his head— and sees the Ass 

Yet standing in the clear moonshme : 

" When shall 1 be as good as thou .? 

Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 

A heart but half as good as thine ! " 

But He — who deviously hath sought 

His Father through the lonesome woods, 

Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 

Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 

He comes, escaped from fields and floods ;- 

With weary pace is drawing nigh ; 

He sees the Ass— and nothing living 

Had ever such a fit of joy 

As hath this little orphan Boy, 

For he has no misgiving ! 

Forth to the gentle Ass ho sprin^^s. 

And up about his neck he climbs ; 

In loving words he talks to him, 

He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 

He kisses him a thousand times ! 

This Peter sees, while in the shade 

He stood beside the cottage-door ; 

And Peter Bell, the rnffian wild. 

Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 

" Oh ! God, I can endure no more ! " 

— Here ends my Tale : for in a trice 

Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; 

Peter went forth with him straightway, 

And, with due care, ere break of day 

Together they brought back the Corse. 

And many years did this poor Ass, 

Whom once it was my luck to see 

Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 

Help by his labor to maintain 

The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who, till that night, 

Had been the wildest of his clan. 

Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly. 

And, after ten months' melanclioly, 

Became a good and honest man. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



DEDICATION. 



Happy tlie feeling from the bosom thrown 
In perfect shape (wliose beauty Time shall 

spare 
Though a breath made it) like a bubble 

blown 
For summer pastime into wanton air , 
Happy the thouglit best likened to a stone 
Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice 

care, 
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, 



Which for the loss of that moist gleaOi 

atone 
That tempted first to gather it. That 

here, 
O chief of Friends! such feelings 1 i)rescnt, 
To thy regard, witli thoughts so fortunate, 
Were a vain notion ; but the hope is dear, 
'i'hat thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
Wilt smile upon tins gift with more than 

mild content ! 



PART 



Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 

room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells , 
And students with their pensive citadels , 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for 

bloom. 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
will murmur by the hour in foxglove belis 
In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is and hence for me, 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be Ixiund 
Witiiin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such tliere n.icds 

must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much lib- 
erty. 
Should find brief solace there, as I have 
found. 

II. 

ADMONITION. 

Intended more particularly for the perusal of 
those who may have hnppened lo be en- 
amomed of some bt-autiful Place of Retreat, 
in the Country of the Lakes. 



Well inay'sl thou halt — and gaze with 

brightening eye! 
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own 

dear brook, 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
But covet not the Abode , — forbear to sigh, 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders — who would tear from Nature's 

book 
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
Think what the Home must be if it were 

tliine. 
Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, 

window, door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
The roses to the porch which they entwhic 
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the 

day 
On which it should be touched, would melt 

away. 

Ill, 
'' Beloved Vale!" I said, " When I shall 

con 
Those many records of my childish years, 
R'^mcmbrance of myself and of my peers 
Will press me down • to think of what is 

gone 
Willbe an awful thought, if life have one." 



MISCELLANEO US SONNE TS. 



227 



But, when into th:; Vale I came, no fears 
Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no 

tears ; 
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had 

I none. 
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
I stood, of simple shame the bhishing 

Thrall : 
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so 

small ! 
A Juggler's balls old Time about him 

tossed ; [all 

I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed : and 
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 

IV. 
AT ArrLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK 

1S04. 

Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should 

rear 
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, 
On favored ground, thy gift, where I might 

dwell 
In neigiiborhood with One to me most dear, 
That undivided we from year to year 
Might work in our high Calling — a bright 

hope 
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free 

scope 
Till checked by some necessities severe. 
And should these slacken, honored Beau- 
mont ! still 
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore 
Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. 
Whether this boon be granted us or not, 
Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot 
With pride, the Muses love it evermore. 

V. 

iSoi. 
Pei.ion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
Togetiier in immortal books enrolled , 
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 
And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide 
Into two ample horns his forehead wide," 
Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
While not an English Mountain we behold 
By the celestial Muses glorified. 
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in 

crowds • 
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 
Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sov- 
ereignty 
Our British Hill is nobler far ; he shrouds 
His double front among Atlantic clouds. 
And pours forth streams more sweet than 
Castaly. 



There is a little unpretending Rill 
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
Notice or name ! — It quivers down the hill, 
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious 

will ; 
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is 

brought 
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
Months perish with their moons . year 

treads on year ; 
But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst 

say 
That, while ten thousand pleasures disap- 
pear. 
And flies their memory fast almost as they ; 
The immortal Sjiirit of one happy day 
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 



Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied , 

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at lier 

side, 
And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
All that to each is precious, as we float 
Gently along : regardless who shall chide 
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to 

glide, 
Happy Associates breathing air remote 
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the 

Muse, 
Why have I crowded this small bark with 

you 
And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
WHiile here sits One whose brightness owes 

its hues 
To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from 

above. 
No fleeting spirit, but my own true Love ? ; 



The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade ; 

The sweetest notes must terminate am; 
die ; 

O Friend! thy flute has breathed a har- 
mony 

Softly resounded through this rocky glade. 

Such strains of rapture as* the Genius 
played ; 



• See the Visiou of Mirza in the Spectator. 



228 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit 

high; 
He who stood visible to Mirza's eve, 
Never before to human sight betrayed, 
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening 

spread I 
The visionary Arches are not there, 
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining 

Seas ; 
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
Whence I have risen, nplifred on the breeze 
Of liarmony, above all earthly care. 



UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PIC- 
TURE, 

Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart 

Praisf,d be the Art whose subtle power 
could stay 

Yon cloud, and fix h in that glorious shape ; 

Nor would permit the thin smoke to es- 
cape, 

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the 
day ; 

Which stopped that band of travellers on 
tlieir way, 

Ere they were lost within the shady woo:l , 

And showed the Baik upon the glassy flood 

Forever anchored in her sheltering bay. 

Soul-soothing Art I whom Morning, Noon- 
tide, Even, 

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; 

Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 

Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast 
given 
/ To one brief moment caught from fleeting 
time 

Tile appropriate calm of blest eternity. 



'* Why, Minstrel, these untuncful murmur- 
in gs — 
Dull, flagging notes that with each other 

jar?" 
" i hink, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
From its own country, and forgive the 

strings." 
A simple answer! but even so forth springs. 
From the Castalian fountain of the heart. 
The Poetry of Life, and all thai Art 
Divine of words quickening insensate 

tilings. 
From the submissive necks of guiltless 

men 
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe 
recoils : 



Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in thd 

toils 
Of mortal sympathy : what wonder tlien 
That the poor Harp distempered music 

yields 
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 



Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 
From this low threshold daily meets my 

sight ; 
When I step forth to hail the morning 

light; 
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell- 
how 
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
— By planting on thy naked head the crest 
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme! 
That doth presume no more than to supply 
A graco the smuous vale and roaring stream 
Want, (lirouph neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a 

gleam 
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die. 



TO SLEEP. 

GENTLE SLEEP ! do they belong to thee, 
These twinklings of oblivion 1 Thou dost 

love 
To sit in meekness, like the bro iding Dove, 
A captive never wisi ing to be free. ; 
This tiresome nigiit, O Sleep! thou art to 

me 
A Fly, that up and down himself doth 

shove 
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above. 
Now on the water vexed with mockery. 

1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
Yet ever willing to be reconciled • 

O gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 

XIII. 
TO SLEEP 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, 

Sleep ! 
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest 

names; 
Tl e very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, 
When thankfulness of heart is strong and 

deep I 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



229 



Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost 

steep 
In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that 

tames 
A.11 anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and 

aims 
Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I 

alone, 
r surely not a man ungently made, 
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is 

crost ? 
Perverse, seif-willed to own and to disown. 
Mere slave of them who never for thee 

prayed, 
Still last to come where thou art wanted 

most! 

XIV. 

TO SLEEP. 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and 

seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 

pure sky ; 
I have Uiought of all by turns, and yet do 

lie 
Sleepless I and soon the small birds' melo- 
dies 
Must hear, fust uttered from my orchard 

trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.j 
Even thus last night, and two niglits more, I 

lay. 
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any 

stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-ni'^ht away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier jjetween day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 

health ! 



XV. 



THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king 
Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell 
With emerald floored, and with purpurea! 

shell 
Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing 
'As this low structure, for the tasks of 

Spring, 
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant 

swell 



Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to 

dwell ; 
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding 

wing. 
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew- 
tree bough. 
And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow crowt 
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down. 
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : 
I gazed — and, self-accused wiiile gazing, 

sighed 
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous 
pride ! 

XVI. 

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE 

COMPLETE ANGLER." 

While flowing rivers yield a blameless 

sport, 
Shall live the name of Walton : Sage 

benign ! 
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and 

line 
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
To reverend watching of each still report 
That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline- 
He found the longest summer day too short, 
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford 

brook — 
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
The cowslip-bank and shady wiHow-tree; 
And the fresh meads — where flowed, from 

every nook 
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety I 

XVII. 
TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. 

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius 

made 
That work a living landscape fair and 1)right . 
Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
Than tliose soft scenes through which thy 

childhood strayed. 
Those southern tracts of Cambria, *' deep 

embayed. 
With green hills fenced, with ocean's mur- 
mur lull'd ; " 
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet 

culled 
For worthless brows, while in the pensive 

shade 
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head \\n 

graced. 
Yet pure and powerful minds, hcarti. meeii 

ahd still. 



230 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



A 5jratefu] few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall 

stray 
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste; 
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar 

Hilll 



ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED 
Tilli PUliLlCATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. 

See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, " A Book 
was writ of late called ' Tetraclioi don.' " 

A Book came forth of late, called Peter 

Bell; 
Not negligent the style ;— the matter ? — 

good 
As aught that song records of Robin Hood ; 
Or Koy, renowned through many a Scottish 

dell; 
But some (who brook those hackneyed 

themes full well, 
Nor heat, at Tarn o' Shanter's name, their 

blood) 
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy 

brood, 
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
Heed not, wild Rover once through heath 

and glen, 
Who mad'st at length the better Hfe thy 

choice, 
Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men 
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, 
Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and 

rejoice. 
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen. 



Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend 
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is 

mute ; 
And Care — a comforter that best could suit 
Her froward mood, and softliest repr-hend ; 
And Love — a charmer's voice, that used to 

lend, 
More efficaciously than aught that flows 
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose 
The throbbing pulse — else troubled without 

end : 
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and 

rest 
From her own overflow, what power sedate 
On those revolving motions did await 
Assiduously — to soothe her aching breast ; 
And, to a point of just relief, abate 
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 



Excuse is needless when with love sincere 

Of occupation, not by fashion led, 

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust 

o'erspread ; 
My nerves from no such murmur shrink,- - 

tho' near. 
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
When twilight shades darken the mountain's 

head. 
Even She who toils to spin our vital thread 
Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear 
To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven 

protect 
Its own ; though Rulers, with undue respect, 
Trusting to crowded factory and mart 
And proud discoveries of the intellect, 
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart. 



composed in one of the valleys of 
westmoreland, on easter sunday. 

With each recurrence of this glorious morn 

That saw the Saviour in his human frame 

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage- 
dame 

Put on fresh raiment — till that hour unworn : 

Domestic hands the home-bred wool had 
shorn. 

And she who span it culled the daintiest 
fleece. 

In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of 
Peace, 

Whose temples bled beneath the platted 
thorn. 

A blest estate when piety sublime 

These humble props disdained not ! O 
green dales I 

Sad may / be who heard your sabbath 
chime 

When Art's abused inventions were un- 
known ; 

Kind Nature's various wealth was all your 
own ; 

And benefits were weighed in Reason's 
scales 1 

XXII. 
DECAY OF PIETY. 

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed 

my cheek, 
Matrons and Sires— who, punctual to the 

call 



MISCELLANEOUS SO \ NETS. 



23J 



Of their loved Church, on fast or festival 
Through the long year the House of 

Prayer would seek : 
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall 
They came to lowly bench or sculptured 

stall, 
But with one fervor of devotion meek. 
1 see the places where they once were 

known, 
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling 

crowds, 
Is ancient Piety forever flown ? 
Alas 1 even then they seemed like fleecy 

clouds 
That, struggling through the western sky, 

have won 
Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 

XXIII. 

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE 
OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRAS- 
MERE, 1S12. 

What need of clamorous bells or ribbons 

These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 
Angels of love, look down upon the pi; cc ; 
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride 

display 
Even for such promise • — serious is her face, 
Modest her mien j and she whose thoughts 

keep pace 
With gentleness, in that becoming way 
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid 

appear ; 
No disproportion in her soul, no strife ; 
But, when the closer view of wedded life 
Hath shown tliat nothing human can be 

clear 
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I. 

i'ES ! hope niay with my strong desire Keep 

pace, 
And I be undeluded, unbetraycd; 
For if of our affections none finds grace 
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath 

God made 
The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
Glory to that eternal Feace is paid, 



Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love 

dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the 

power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless 

flower, 
That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 

XXV. 

FROM THE SAME. 



No mortal object did these eyes behold 
When first they met the placid light o\ 

thine, 
And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: 
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course 

must hold ; 
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
(For what delights the sense is false and 

weak) 
Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
In that which perishes ; nor will he lend 
His heart to aught which doth on timo 

depend. 
'TJs sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
That kills the soul : love betters what is 

best, 
Even here below, but more in heaven above.) 



FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME 
BEING. 



The prayers I make will then be sweet 

indeed 
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
That of its native self can nothmg feed : 
Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
That quickens only where thou say'st it 

may ■ 
Unless Tliou show to us thine own true 

way 
No man can find it ; Father ! Thou must 

lead 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into 

my mind 
By which such virtue may in me be bred 
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 



S luj) 



^32 



Af ISC ELLA iVEO C/S SO AWE TS. 



The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
That I m;iy have the power to sing of thee, 
And sound thy praises everlastingly. ,' 

XXVII. 

Surprise!) by joy— impaticnt_as the \Vind 
,^ I turrielTto sliare the transport — Oh 1 with 
. ^ whom 

But Thee, deep buried in tlie silent tomb, 
, That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
/^ Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 
mind — 
Dut how could I forget thee ? Through 

what power. 
Even for the least division of an hour. 
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
To my moht grievous loss ?— That thought's 

return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever l3ore, 
J"^ave one, one only, when 1 stood forlorn, 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no 

more ; 
That neither present time, nor years un- 
born 
Could to my sight that heavenly face re- 
store. 

XXVIII. 

I. 

Methought I saw the footbtcps of a 

throne 
Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did 

shroud — 
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; 
But all the steps and ground about were 

strown [bone 

With sights the ruefullcst that flesh and 
Ever put on ; a miserable crowd, 
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that 

cloud, 
" Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we 

groan." 
Those steps I clomb ; the mists before me 

gave 
Smooth way : and I beheld the face of one 
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to 

have 
Pleasing remembrance of a thouglit fore- 
gone ; 
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave I 

XXIX. 

NOVEMBER, 1 836. 

II. 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 
The sway of Death ; long ere mine eyes had 
<een 



Tiiy countenance — the still rapture of thf 

mien — 
Wlien thou, dear Sister ! wert become 

Death's Bride ; 
'Nojrace of pain or languor could abide 
^riiat change : — age on thy brow was 

smoothed — thy cold 
Wan clicek at once was privileged to unfolcJ 
A loveliness to living youth denied. 
Oh ! if within me hope should e'er decline, 
The lamp of faith, lost Friend 1 too faintly 

burn; [tiiine, 

Then may that heaven-revealing smile of 
The bright assurance, visibly return ; 
And let my spirit in tliat power divine 
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased t» 

mourn. 

XXX. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinkmg down in it^ tranquillity; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 

Sea: 
Listen ! tlie mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with liis eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastinglv. 
DearCiiild! dear Girl! that walkest with 

me here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn 
thought, 

i Thy nature is not tlierefore less divine : 

j Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the 

I year ; 

I And worship'st at the Temple's inner 

j shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

XXXI. 

Where lies the Land to wliich yon Ship 

must go? 
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day. 
Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
What boots the inquiry? — Ncitlicr friend 

nor foe 
She cares for ; let her travel where she may 
She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
Ever before her. and a wind to blow. 
Vet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
(From time to time, like Pilgrims^ here and 

there 
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something 

dark. 
Of thvj old .'^ea some reverential fear, 
1 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark I 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



•^z^ 



XXXII. 

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 

nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it 

showed : 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
Some veering up and down, one knew not 

why, 
A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 
And lustily along the bay she slrt)de, 
Her tackling rich, and of apparel higli. 
This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her, 
Yet I pt rsued her with a Lover's look ; 
This Ship to all the rest did 1 prefer : 
When will she turn, and whither ? She will 

brook 
No tarrying : where She comes the winds 

must stir: 
On went She, and due nortli her journey 

took. 

XXXIII. 

/"The world is too much with us: late and 
I soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all liours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of 

tune ; 
' It moves us not.— Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn : 
So might I, standing on this pleasant len, 
Have glinipses that would make mj less 

forlorn ; \ 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed iiorn. 

XXXIV. 

A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are 

found. 
Who. while the flattering Zephyrs round 

them play, 
On " coignes of vantage " hang their nests 

of clay : 
How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
Of nature trusts the Mind thatbuilds for 

aye 
Convinced that there, there only, she can 

lay 



As the year runs 



Secure foundations. 

round, 

Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple 

eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring ; 
\Vhere even the motion of an Angel's wing 
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
Ul silent hills, and more than silent sky. 

XXXV. 

" Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 

blind; 
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope be 

trays ; 
Heavy is woe ;— and jov, for human-kind, 
A mmirnful thing, so transient is the blaze ! '^ 
'J'luis might he paint our lot of mortal days 
Wiio wants the glorious faculty assigned 
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
And color life's dark cloud with orient rays 
Imagination is that sacred power, 
Imagination lofty and refined : 
■ Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples 

bind 
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest 

shower. 
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest 

wind. 

xxxvi. 

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEV CALVERT. 

Calvert! it must not be unheard bv them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did con- 
demn 
'J'hy youth to hopeless wasting, root and 

stem — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; 
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great 
In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood which now I meditate ; — 
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, 

Youth! 
To think how much of this will be thy 
praise. 

PART n. 



Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you hav« 

frowned, 
Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 



i«34 



M ISC EL T. A .VLOUS SOA^jVE TS. 



Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 

sOLind ; 
With it Canioens soothed an exile's grief : 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery- 
land 
To struggle through dark ways : and. when 

a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he 

blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



[Tow sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
The wayward brain, to saunter through a 

wood ! 
An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
Tall trees, green arbors, and ground-flowers 

in flocks ; 
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile ]iranks 
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering 

Mountebanks, — 
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, 

and mocks 
The crowd beneath her. V^ril^ I think, 
Such place to me is sOiT)_*times like a 

dream 
Or map of the whole worid : thoughts, link 

by link, 
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such 

gleam 
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink. 
And leap at once from the delicious stream. 



TO B. R. HAYDON. 

High is our calling. Friend [^Creative Art 
,' Whether the instrument of words she use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues), 
Demands the service of a mind and h.eart. 
Though sensitive yet, in their weakest part, 

Heroically fashioned to infuse 

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
While the whole world seems adverse to 

desert. 
And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she 

may, 
Through long-lived pressure of obscure dis- 

Uess, 



Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
And in the soul ^drnit of no decay, " ' 
Brook no continuance ot weak-minded 

ness — 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hara ! 



From the dark chambers of dejectiof 

freed, 
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care. 
Rise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall 

Ijear 
Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
Thou/i,h bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
In wrath) fdl headlong from the fields ol 

air, 
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds tiiat 

dare. 
If anglit be in them of immortal seed, 
/vjirl reason govern that audacious flight 
Which heaven-ward they direct,— Then 

droop not thou, 
Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
In the low dell mid Koslin's faded grove •■ 
A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
A soaring spirit is their prime dehght. 



Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
With ready sunbeams every straggjing 

showrr; 
And, if an unexpected cloud slioiild lower, 
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half- 
tilled 
Gathering green weeds to mix witli poppy 

flower. 
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant 

thy power, 
Unnitieci by the wise, all censure stilled. 
Ah! show that worthier lionors are thy 

due ; 
I''air Prime of life ! arouse th.e deeper heart; 
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim ; 
And, if there be a joy that slights the claiok 
Of grateful memoiy, bid that joy depart. 

VI. 

I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm 

regret 
Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
(So might he seem) of all the glittering 

quire ! 
Blue ether still surrounds him — yet— and 

yet ; 



MISCELLAN-EOUS SONNETS. 



^35 



But nowjhe horizon's rocky parapet 
Is reachecIT^vITere, fbfleltilTs; his bright at- 
tire, 
He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
Then pays subinisslvely the appointed debt 
J\) the flyin;^ moments, and is seen no mora 
.\ngels and sods ! We struggle with our 

" fate. 
Whilo Ihj.ilth, power, glory, fr. m their height 

dcchne, 
Depressed : and then extinguished : and our 

state, 
In tliis, how different, lost Star, from thine. 
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ; 

VII. 

I HEARD (alas ! 'twas only in a dream) 
Strams — winch, as sage Antiquity believed, 
•By waking ears liave sometimes been re- 
ceived 
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream ; 
A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
And perfect harmony of notes, acluev d 
By a fair Swan on diowsy billows heaved, 
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam 
For is she not the votary of Apollo.'' 
And knows she not, singing as he inspires, 
That bliss awaits her which the ungeni;i] 

Hollow * 
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires ? 
Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal 

quires ' 
She soared — and I awoke, struggling in vain 
to follow. 



RETIREMENT. 

If the whole weight of what we think and 

feel. 
Save only far as thouglit and feeling blend 
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend ! 
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
But to promote and fortify the weal 
Of our own Being is her paramount end ; 
A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
Who shun the mischief which they cannot 

heal. [bliss ; 

peace in these feverish times Is sovereign 
Here, with no thirst but what the stream 

can slake. 
And startled only by the rustling brake. 
Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered 

Mind 
By some weak aims at services assigned 
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 

* See the Phaedon of Plato, by which this 
Souvict was suggested. 



ir. 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 

swell 
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange- 
Not these alnne inspire the tuneful shell ; 
But where untroubled peace and concord 

dwell. 
There also is the Muse not loth to range, 
Watching the twilight .smoke of cot oi 

grange. 
Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor 
And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
Diaphanous because ft travels slowly ; 
Soft is the music that would charm forever ; 
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and 

lowly 

X. 
Mark the concentred hazels that enclose 
Yon old gray Stone, protected from the ray 
Of noontide suns — and even the beams that 

play 
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind 

blows. 
Are seldom free to touch the moss that 

grows 
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
The very image framing of a Tomb, 
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose 
Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye 

trees ! 
And thou, gray Stone, the pensive likeness 

keep 
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleeji : 
For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
When solitary Nature condescends 
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 

XI. 

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS 
THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 

Dark and more dark the shades of evening 

fell; 
The wished-for point was reached — but at 

an hour 
When little could be gained from that rich 

dower 
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
Yet did the gl<. wing west with marvellous 

power 
Salute us ; there stood Indian citadel. 
Temple of Greece, and minster witb itu 

tower 



^3^ 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



Substantiafly expressed— a pb.ce for bell 
Or clock to (oU from ! Many a tempting isle, 
With groves that never were imagined, lay 
'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the 

eve 
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while 
We should forget them ; they are of the sky, 
And from our earthly memory fade away 



" they are of the sky. 

And from our earthlv memory fade away ! " 

Those words were Jittered as in pensive 

mood 
We turned, departiag from that solemn 

sight ; 
A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! 
But now upon this thought I cannot brood : 
It IS unstable as a dream of night ; 
>ior will 1 praise a cloud, however bright, 
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built 

dome, 
Though clad in colors beautiful and pure. 
Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
The immortal Mind craves objects that 

endure : 
These cleave to it ; from these it cannot 

roam. 
Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. 



SEPTEMBER, 1S15. 

While not a leaf seems faded ; while the 

fields, 
With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 
In brightest sunshine bask ; this nipping air, 
Sent irom some distant clime where Winter 

wields 
His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields 
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers be- 
ware : 
And whispers to the silent birds, " Prepare 
Against the threatening foe your trustiest 

shields." 
For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
To Nature's tuneful ([uire, this rustling dry 
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystal- 
line sky, 
Announce a season potent to renew 
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of 

song. 
And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 



NOVEMHER I. 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 

bright 
The effluence from yon distant mountain's 

head, 
Which, strown with ^now smooth as the sky 

can shed. 
Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
And all her twinkling stars Who now 

would tread, 
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 

head— 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
Of sad mortality's earth-iullying wing, 
Un!-wept. unstained.'' Nor shall the aerial 

Powers 
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome 

flowers. 

XV. 
COMPOSED DURING A STORM, 

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
Went forth — his course surrendering to the 

care 
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings 

prowl 
Insiduously, untimely thunders growl ; 
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, 

tear 
The lingering.j:£.mjriant of their vellowjiair, 
And shivering wolves, surprised with dark- 
ness, howl 
As i*^ the sun were not. He raised his eye 
Soul-smitten ; for, that instant, did appear 
Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest 

sky. 
An azure disc — shield of Tranquillity; 
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
Of providential goodness ever nigh 1 

XVI. 
TO A SNOW-DROP. 

LoNE Flower, hemmed in with snows and 

white as they 
But hardier far, onee more I see thee bend 
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by 

day. 
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops 

waylay 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



237 



The risin- sun, and on the plains descend • 
Yet art tiiou welcome, welcome as a friend 
Whose zeal outruns his promise ! i31uc-eyed 

May , . , , 

Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
With bright jonquils, their odors lavishing 
On tlic soft west-wind and his frolic peers ; 
Nor will I then tliy modest grace forget, 
Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger ot 

Spring, 
And pensive monitor of fleeting years! 

XVII. 
TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER. 
With a selection from the Poems of Anno, 
Countess of VViiichilse:\ ; and extracts cf r. ii 1- 
\\x character from other Writers ; transcnujd 
by a female friend. 
L\DY ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 
{ But seldom trod) of mildly-glcaming ore • 
And culled, from sundry beds, a -acid store 
Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave 
The azure brooks where I3ian joys to lave 
Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
Dim shades— for reliques, upon Lethe's 

shore, 
Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
To female hands the treasures were resigned ; 
And lo this Work !— a grotto bright and 

clear 
From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless 

mind 
May feed on thoughts though pensive not 

austere ; 
Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
To holy musing, it may enter here. 

XVIII. 
TO LADY r.EAUMONT. 



Lady 1 the songs of Spring were in the 

grove . - 

While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
While I was planting green unfading bowers, 
And shrubs-to hang upon the warm alcove, 
/\nd sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy 
wove , , , J , 

The dream, to time and nature's blended 

powers 
I gave tills paradise for winter hours, 
A labyrinth. Lady! which your feet shall 

rove. , , , i- 

Veil when the sun-of life more feebly shines. 
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
Or of high gladness you shall hither brmg ; 



And thfi.s£Lpcrennial bowers and murmuring 

'" pines , , , , 

Be_xiacrous as the music and the bloom 
And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 

XIX. 

There is a pleasure in poetic pants 
Which only Poets know ;— 'twas rightly said 
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
Their smoothest paths, to wear their light 

chains ? • 1 1 

When happiest Fancy has mspired the 
stftins, 

I How oft the malice of one luckless word 
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, 

! Haunts him belated on the silent plains! 
Yet he repines not,if his thought stand clear, 

! At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of 

Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
Or rain drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 

XX. 

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly 

said, , 

« Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art 
bright!' , . ,. A 

Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread 
And penetrated all with tender light, 
She cast a way, and showed her fulgent head 
Uncovered ; dazzling the Beholder's sight 
; A^ if to vindicate her beauty's right 
H-r beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown 

aside, , , • -^ ^ 

Went floating from her, darkening as it went ; 
And a liuge mass, to bury or to hide, 
Approached this glory of the firmament , 
Who meekly yields, and is obscured-con- 

tent , . , 

With one calm triimiph of a modest pride. 



When haughty expectations prostrate he, 
1 .\nd ",-andeur crouches like a guilty thing, 

Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
1 Mature release, in fair society 
1 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
! Like these frail snow-drops that together 
cling, . , ^. • „ 

And nod their helmets, smitten by the wmg 

Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 

Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to 
great 



238 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used 
to stand 

The Emathian phalanx, nobly obsthiate ; 

And so the bright immortal Theban band, 

Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's com- 
mand 

Might overwhelm, but could not separate 1 

XXII. 

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 

hour ! 
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night ; 
But studious only to remove from slight 
Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient 

Power ! 
Thus did the waters gleam, t!ie mountains 

lower, 
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf skin vest 
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him 

was seen 
The self-same Vision which we now behold. 
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! 

brought forth ; 
These mighty barriers, and the gulf be- 
tween : 
The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 

XXIII. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the sky, 
" How silentlv, and with how wan a face ! " 
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on 

high 
Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's 

race ! 
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a 

sigh 
Which they would stifle, move a't such a 

pace ! 
The northern Wind, to call thee to the 

chase, 
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
The'power of Merlin, Goddess! this should 

be: 
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were 

riven, 
Should sally forth, to keep thee company, 
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear 

blue heaven ; 
But, Cynthia ! should to tliee the palm be 

given, 
Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 



Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : 
The lake below reflects it not ; the sky, 
Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
A gay society with faces bright. 
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they 

sing. 
While hearts and voices in the song unite. 

XXV. 

The stars are mansions built by Nature's 
hand. 

And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 

Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal 
vest ; 

Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow 
strand, 

A habitation marvellously planned. 

For life to occupy in love and rest ; 

All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 

Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage com- 
mand. 

Glad thought for every season ! but the 
Spring 

Gave it while cares were weighing on my 
heart, 

'Mid songs of birds, and insects murmur- 
ing ; 

And while the youthful year's prolific art — 

Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fash- 
ioning 

Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part. 

XXVI. 

Desponding Father! mark this altered 

bough. 
So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly 

now, 
Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if 

formed. 
Invisible ? yet Spring her genial brow 
Knits not o'er that discoloring and decay 
As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
At like unlovely process in the May 
Of human life . a StripHng's graces blow, 
Fade and are shed, that from their timelj 

fall 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNE TS. 



239 



Misdeem it not a cankerous cliange) may 

grow 
Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks sliali 

call : 
In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. 



CAPTIVITY,— MARY OUEEN OF SCOTS. 

• As tlie cold aspect of a sunless way 
btrikes through the Traveller's frame v/ith 

deadlier chill, 
Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
tilistcning with unparticipatcd ray, 
Oi shining slope where he must never 

stray ; 
So ;oys, remembered without wish or will, 
Sii.irpen the keenest edge of present ill, — 
On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
Just Heaven, contract the compass of my 

mind 
To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
Quench those felicities whose light I find 
Reflected in my bosom all too late ! — 
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait 
And, like mine eyes that stream with sor 

row, blind 1 '' 



XXVIII. 
ST CATHERINE OF LEDEURY. 

When human touch (as monkish books 

attest) 
Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury 

bells 
Broke forth in concert flung adown th.e 

dells, 
And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy 

crest ; 
Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady 

blest 
To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
Of her loved mistress : soon the music died. 
And Catherine said, i)crc ^i 6Ct up mi) rest. 
Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had 

sought 
A home that by such miracle of sound 
Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or 

felt 
The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 
And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
Till she exchanged for heaven that happy 

round. 



" Gives to airy nothinsj 

A local habitation and a name." 

Though narrow be tint old Man's cares, 

and near. 
The poor old Man is greater than he 

seems ; 
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams r 
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
Rich are his walks with sup. rnatural cheer; 
The region of his inner spirit teems 
With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
He the seven birds hath seen, that never 

part. 
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their 

nightly rounds, 
And counted them : and oftentimes will 

start— 
For overheid are sweeping Gabriel's 

Hounds 
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the fly- 
ing Hart 
To chase forever, on aerial grounds ! 

XXX. 

Four fiery steeds, impatient of the rein 
Whirled us o'er si nless ground beneath a 

sky 
As void of sunshine, when, from that wide 

plain. 
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry. 
Like a Sierra of Cerulean Spain, 
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? 
Yes, there was One , — for One, asunder flj 
The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
.\nd green vales open out, with grove and 

field, 
And the fair front of many a happy Home: 
Such tempting spots as into vision come 
While Soldiers, weary of the arms they 

wield 
And sick at heart of strifeful Chnstend( m, 
Gaze on the moon by parting clouds ro- 

vealcd. 



Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 
Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; 
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
Through rocky passes, among firwery 

creeks^ 
r\v\(\ tracks thee dancing down thy watef 

breaks ; 



240 



MTSCELLAtVEOUS SONNETS. 



Il wish were mine some type of ilice to 

view, 
Thee, and not tlice thyself, 1 would not do 
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human 

cheeks, 
Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouidst thou 

be,— 
Have ncitlier limbs, feet, feathers, joints 

nor hairs : 
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
With purer robes than those of fiesh and 

blood, 
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good ; 
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 



COMPOSED ON THE FANKS OF A ROCKY 
STREAM. 

I)or.M.\Tic Teachers, of the snow-white 

fur ! 
Ve wrangling Sclioolnicn, of the scarlet 

hood! 
Who, with a keenness not to be withstood. 
Press the point home, or falter and demur. 
Checked m your C( ursc by many a teasing 

burr ; 
These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
Might cool :~and, as the Genius of tlie 

■ flood 
Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
Each lighter function slumbering in tlic 

brain, 
Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy 

gleams 
That o'er the pavement of the surging 

streams 
Welter and flash, a synod might detain 
With subtle speculations, haply vain, 
But surely less so than your far-fetched 

themes 1 

XXIII. 

THI.S, AND THE TWO FOLLOWING, WERE 
SUGGESTED BY MR. W. WE.STALL'S 
VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC., IN YORK- 
SHIRE. 

Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
'I'liou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts. 
Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry- 
bearing plants. 
Rise into life and in thy train appear : 
And, through the sunny portion of the 

year. 
Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursui- 
vants : 



^nd, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ; 
And hart and Innd and hunter with \\\% 

spear. 
Languish and droop together. Nor unfclt 
in man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; 
And, haply, far within the marble belt 
Of central earth, where tortured Spirits 

pine 
For grace and goodness lost, thy nuirmurs 

melt 
Their anguish,— and they blend sweet songs 

with thine.* 

XXXIV. 

MALHAM COVE. 

Was the aim irustrated by force or guile. 
When giants scooped from out the locky 

ground. 
Tier under tier, this scmicirque profound.'' 
(Giants — the same who built in Erin's isle 
That Causeway with mcomparable toil) ! 
O, had this vast theatric structure wound 
With finished sweep into a perfect round, 
No mightier work had gumed the plausive 

smile 
Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas. 
Vain earth ! false world ! Foundations 

must be laid 
In Heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and 

WAS, 

Tilings incomplete and purposes betrayed 
Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic 

glass 
Than noblest objects uttaly decayed. 



GORDALE. 

At early dawn, or rather when the air 
Ghnimers with fading light, and shadowy 

Eve 
Is busiest to confer and to bereave; 
Then, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
Where the young lions couch ; for so, by 

leave 
Of the propitious hour, thou may'st per- 
ceive 
The local Deity, with oozy hair 
And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn, 



* Waters (ns Mr. Westall informs us m the 
letter-press prefixed to his admirable views) 
are invariably found to flow through these 
caverns. 



MrSCRLLAlVEOl/S SONNETS. 



24k 



Recumbent : Him thou may'st behold, who 

hides 
His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
Teaching the docile waters huvv to turn, 
Or (if need be) impediment to spurn, 
And force their passage to tlie salt-sea 

tides ! 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER :^, l8o2. 

Earth has not anything to show more 

fair ; 
Dull would he be of son! who cnuld pass by 
A sight so touchint^ in its majesty ; 
This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 

lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless 

air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hil] ; 
Ne'er saw 1, never felt, a calm so deep! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still I 



CONCLUSION. 



If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
Produced as lonely Nature or tlie strife 
That animates the scenes of public lile * 
Inspired, may in their leisure claim a part ; 
And if these Transcripts of the private 

heart 
Have gained a sanction from thy falling 

tears ; 
Then 1 repent not. But my soul hath 

fears 
Breathed from eternity , for as a dart 
Cleaves the blank air. Life flies , now every 

day 
Is but a glimmering spcke in the swift 

wheel 
Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
AH fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! 
So timely Grace the immortal wing may 

heal, 
And honor rest upon the senseless clay. 

• This line alludes to Sonnets which will be 
found in another Class. 



PART III. 



Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 
The clouds, and wheel around the rnoun 

t.un tops 
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she^ 

drops 
Well pleased to sk'.m the plain with wild 

flowers cleckt. 
Or muse in solemn grove whose shades pro- 
tect 
The lingering dew— there steals along, or 

stops 
Watcliing the least small bird that round 

liei hops. 
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. 
Fler functions are they therefore less divine, 
Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave 

intent 
Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be 

thine, 
Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present 
One offering, knjel before her modest 

shrine, 
With brow in penitential sorrow bent f 

II. 

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 

In whose collegiate shelter^ Enghu.d's 
Flowers 

E.xpand, enjoying through their vernal 
hours 

Thi air of liberty, the light of truth ; 

Much have ye suffered from Time's gnav;- 
ing tooth : 

Yet, 6 ye spires of Oxford ! domes and 
towers ! 

Gardens and groves I your presence over- 
powers 

The soberness of reason ; tili, in sooth. 

Transformed, and rushing on a bold ex- 
change, 

[ slight my own beloved Cam, to range 

Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet • 

Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 

The stream-like windings of that glorious 
street — 

An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown.' 
III. 

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 

Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 

allow 
Such transport, though but for a moment'a 

space : 



242 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
The crescent moon clove with its glittering 

prow 
Tht clouds, or night-bird sang from shady 

bough ; 
But in pl;un daylight :— She, too, at my 

side, 
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
Maintams mviolate its slightest vow ! 
Sweet Fancy ! other gifts must I receive ; 
Proofs of a higher sovereignty J clami , 
Take from her brow the withering flowers 

of eve, 
And to that brow life's morning wreath re- 

s*^ore , 
Let her be comprehended in the frame 
Of these illusions, or tliey please no more, 

IV 

RECOLLECTION OF IHF PORTRAIT OF 
KING HENRY EIGHTH, TKIMTY LODGE, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

The imperial Stature, the colossal stride. 

Are vet before* me, yet do 1 behold 

The broad full visage, chest of amplest 

mould. 
The vestments br, 'idered with barbaric 

pride 
And lo I a poniard, at *hc Monarch's side, 
Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
Witli the keen threatenings of that fu1g,:nt 

eye, 
fielow the white-rimmed bonnet, far- 
descried. 
W'tio trembles now at thy capricious mood ? 
'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty 

King, 
Wc rather think, with grateful mind sedate, 
How I'rovidciice educeth, from the spring 
Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of 

good, 
Which neither force shall check nor time 

abate. 

V. 

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE 
THE THIRD). 

Ward of the Law! — dread Shadow of a 

King 
Whose realm had dwindled to one stately 

room, 
Whose universe was gloom immersed in 

gloom. 
Darkness as thick as life o'er life could 

lling, 



Save haply for some feeble glimmering 

Of Faith and Hope — if thou, by nature's 
doom 

Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, 

Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow 
cling, 

When thankfulness were best.'' — Fresh- 
flowing tears, 

Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding 
sicrh, 

Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 

Which justly it can claim. The Nation 
hears 

In this deep knell, silent for threescore 
years, 

An unexampled voice of awful memory 1 

VI 

JUNE, 1820. 

Fame tells of groves — from F.ngland far 

away — 
* Groves that inspire the Nightingale to 

trill 
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying 

lay ; 
Such bold report 1 venture to gainsay • 
For I have heard the quire of Kiclurund 

hill 
Chanting, with indefatigable bill, 
Strains that recalled to mind a distant dav ; 
When, liaply under shade of tliat same 

wood, 
AikI scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
Plied steadily between those willowy shores, 
The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons 

stood — 
Listening, and listening long, in rapturous 

mood, 
Ye heavenly Bads ! to yiair progenitors. 

VII. 
a parsonage IN OXFORDSHIRE. 

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed 

ends, 
Is marked by no distinguishable line ; 
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine ; 
And, wheresoc'er the stealing footstep 

tends, 
Garden, and that Domain where kindred, 

friends, 
And neighbors rest together, here confound 
Tlieir several features, mingled like th« 

sound 



Waliachia is the country alluded to* 



M ISC ELL A iVEOUS SONNE TS. 



243 



Of many waters, or as evening blends 
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub 

and flower, 
Waft fragrant greetings io each silent 

grave ; 
And while those lofty poplars gently wave 
Their tops, between them comes and goes a 

sky 
Bright as the glimpses of eternity. 
To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 



COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CAS- 
TLE IN NORTH WALES. 

Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless 

halls, 
Wandering with timid footsteps At be- 
trayed, 
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the 

Thralls 
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls. 
From the wan Moon, upon the towers and 

walls. 
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of 

shade. 
Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars. 
To winds abandoned and the prying stars. 
Time l(n>es Thee ! at his call the Seasons 

twine 
Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead 

hoar ; 
And, though past pomp no changes can 

restore, 
A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! 



TO the lady E. B. and the HON. MISS P. 

) Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, 
near Llangollen, 1824. 

A Stream, to mingle with your favorite 

Dee, 
Along the Vale of Meditation * flows ; 
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to 

see 
In Nature's face the expression of repose ; 
Or haply there some pious hermit chose 
' To live and die, the peace of heaven his 

aim ; 
j To whom the wild sequestered region owes. 
At this late day, its sanctifying name. 



* Glyn Myryr. 



Glvn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian 

toni^uc, 
In ours, the Vale of Friendship, let 

this spot 
Be named ; where, faithful to a low-roofed 

Cot, 
On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long : 
Si ers in love, a love allowed to climb. 
Even on this earth, above the reach at 

Time I 



to the torrent at the devil'6 
bridge, north wales, 1824. 

How art thou named ? In search of what 

strange land 
From what huge height, descending ? Can 

such force 
Of waters issue from a British source. 
Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the 

band 
Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with 

hand 
Desperate as thine ? Or come the incessant 

shocks 
From that young Stream, that smites the 

throbbing rocks 
Of Viamala ? There I seem to stand, 
As in life's morn ; permitted to behold. 
From the drca I chasm, woods climbing 

above woods, 
In pomp that fades not ; everlasting snows ; 
AjKJLaliJes that ne'er relinquish.tl>eir repose_^ 
Sucii power possess the family <jf floods 
Over the minds of Poets, young or old I 

XI. 

IN THE WOODS OF RVDAL. 

Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's 

lip 
Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might 

say, 
A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
Its glistening dews ; but hallowed is the 

clay 
Which the Muse warms; and I, whose 

head is gray. 
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship- 
Nor could 1 let one thought — one motion^ 

slip 
That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
For are we not all His without whose care 
Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to tho 

ground ? 
Who gives his Angels wings to spetxl 

through air, 



244 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



And rolls the planets through the blue pro- 
found : 

Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor 
forbear 

To trust a Poet in still musings bound. 

XII. 

When Phlloctetes in the Lemnian isle 
Like a Form sculptured on a monument 
Lay couched :/ on him or his dread bow un- 
bent ^ 
Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile 
The rigid features of a transient smile, 
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, 
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
From his loved home, and from heroic toil. 
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us 

move, 
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal ; 
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufificed to prove 
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile 
Is deep enough to exclude the li^ht of love, 
TlVough man for brother man has ceased to 
feel. 

XIII. 

While Anna's peers and early playmates 

tread. 
In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge ; 
Or tioat with music in the festal barge ; 
Rein the proud steed, or through the 

dance are led ; 
Iler doom it is to press a weary bed- 
Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge 
More urgent called, will stretch his wings 

at large, 
And friends too rarely prop the languid 

head. 
Yet, helped by Genius — untired comforter, 
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her 
Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out 
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor 

shout ; 
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 

XIV. 
TO THE CUCKOO. 

Not the whole warbling grove in concert 

heard 
When sunshine follows shower, the breast 

can tlirill 
Like the first summons. Cuckoo ! of tliy 

bill, 
With its twin notes inseparably paired 



The captive 'mid damp vaults imsunned, 
iinaired. 

Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, 

That cry can reach ; and to the sick man's 
room * 

Sends gladness, by no languid smile de- 
clared. 

The lordly eagle-race through hostile search 

May perish ; time may come when never 
more 

The wilderness shall hear the lion roar ; 

But, long as cock shall crow from house- 
hold perch 

To rouse the dawn, soft gales sh.all speed 
thy wing. 

And thy erratic voice be faithful to the 
Spring 1 



TO 



[Miss not the occasion ; by the forelock take 
'I'liat subtile Power, tlu- never-haltina; Time, 
Lest a inere moment's putting off should make 
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] 

" Wait, prithee, wait I" this answer Lesbia 

threw 
Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed. 
Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
•Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed ; 
But from that bondage when her thoughts 

were freed 
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement 

drew. 
Whence the poor unregarded Favorite, true 
To old affections, had been heard to plead 
With flapping wing for entrance. What a 

shriek 
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a 

strain 
Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain. 
And self-reproach ! for, from aloft, a Kite 
Pounced, — and the Dove, which from its 

ruthless beak 
She could not rescue, perished in her sight S 

XVI. 
THE INFANT M M . 

Unquiet Childhood here by special grace 
Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power 
In painful struggles. Months each other 

chase. 
And naught untunes that Infant's voice ; no 

trace 



MfSCELLAN-EOUS SOXNE TS. 



245 



Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek ; 
Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
Tliat one cnrapt with s^zi"? on hor face 
(Which even the placid innocence of death 
Could scarcely make more placid, heaven 

more bright) 
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
The Virgin, as she slione with kindred light ; 
A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, 
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 

XVII. 
TO , IN HER SEVEXTIETII YEAR. 

.^UCH age how beautiful ! O Lady bright. 
Whose mortal '.ineamcnts seem 'all refmcd 
l)y favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
To something purer and more exquisite 
Than flesh and bit'od ; where'er thou niect'st 

my sight, 
When I behold ihy blanched unwithcrcd 

cheek. 
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming 

white, 
And head that droops because tlie soul is 

meek, 
The- with the welcome Snowdrop I com- 
pare ; 
That child of winter, prompting thoughts 

that climb 
From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty 

air. 
And filling more and more with crystal light 
As pensive Evening deepens into night. 

XVIII. 
TO ROTHA Q . 

RoTiiA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was 

gray 
When at the sacred font for thee I stood : 
Pledged till thou reach the verge of woman- 
hood, 
And .shalt become thy own sufificient stay : 
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
For steadfast hope th.e contract to fulfil ; 
N'ct shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
r".ml)()dicd in the music of tiiis Lay, 
Prcathcd forth beside the peaceful mountain 

Stream * 
W'hose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's 

ear 
After her throes, this Stream of name more 
dear 



* The river Rotha. diat flows into Winder- 
aaere from the Lakes u£ Grasmere and Rydal. 



Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
For others ; for thy future self, a spell 
To summon fancies out of Time's dark 
cell. 

XIX. 

A ORAVE-STONIi UPON THE FLOOR IN 
THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CA- 
THEDRAL. 

" MisERRiMUS ! " and neither name not 

date, 
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the 

stone ; 
Naught but that word assigned to the un- 
known. 
That solitary word — to separate 
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched 

one, 
WJio chose his epitaph ? — Him? elf alone 
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, 
And claim, among the dead, this awful 

crown ; 
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own 
Close to these cloisti j1 steps a burial-place, 
That every foot might fall with heavier irrnd, 
Trampling upon Ins vileness. Stranger, pass 
Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 

XX. 

ROMAN ANTIOUITIES TISCOVERED AT 
blSHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE. 

While poring Antiquarians search the 

ground 
Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a 

Seer, 
Takes fire : — The men that have been reap- 
pear ; 
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; 
And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, 
In festal glee; why not? For fresh and 

clear. 
As if its hues were of the passing year, 
Dawns this time-buried pavement. Fron 

that mound 
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Mas 

imins, 
Shrr.nk into coins with all their warlike tcu-. 
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
Of tenderness — the Wolf*, whose suckling 

Twins 
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he 

wins 
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 



246 



M/SCELLAA'E0(7S SOX NETS. 



n 



1S30. 
Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and 

the pride 
Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
Tc house and liome in many a craggy rent 
Of the wild Peak ; where new-born waters 

glide 
Througli fields vvliose thrifty occupants abide 
As in a dear and chosen banisiiment. 
With every semblance of entire content 
So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried I 
Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her 

troth 
To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, 
May learn, if judgment strengthen with his 

growtli, 
Tliat, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms ; 
And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 
Tlie extremes of favored life, may honor 

both. 



A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARI-EY 
DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 

'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from 

face, 
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still 
Or feed, each planted on that loftv place 
A chosen Tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they 
In opposite directions urged their way 
Pown from tine far-seen mount. No blast 

might kill 
Or blight that fond memorial ; — the trees 

grew. 
And now entwine their arms ; but ne'er 

again 
Jimbraced those Brothers upon Earth's wide 

plain ; 
Nor aught of !n"tual iov or sorrow knew 
Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
Tliat to itself takes all, Eternity. 

XXIII. 

FILIAL PIETY. 

iON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON 
AND LIVERPOOL). 

Untouched through all severity of cold ; 
'nviolate, whate'er tlie cottage hearth 
Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth 
That Pile of Turf is half a century old : 
Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 



Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 
'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on 

earth : 
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold 
Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, 
Through reverence, touch it only to repair 
its waste. — Though crumbling with each 

breath of air, 
In annual renovation thus it stands — 
Rude Mausoleum 1 but wrens nestle there, 
And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds 

are rare. 

XXIV. 

to the author's portrait. 
[Faulted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, 

Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.] 
Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath 

knelt 
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy 

place ! 
And, if Time spare the colors for the grace 
Which to the work surpassing skill hath 

dealt. 
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms 

melt 
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the streain, 
And think and feel, as once the Poet felt. 
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not 

grown 
Unrecognized through many a household 

tear 
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops 

of dew 
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; 
Tears of delight, that testified how true 
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 

XXV. 

Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant 
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 
Yut iiave my thou^lits for thee been vig- 
ilant — 
Bound to thy service with unceasing care. 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For naugnt but what thy happiness could 

spare. 
Speak— though this soft warm heart, once 

free to hold 
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine. 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
Speak, that ray torturing, doubts their en6 
mai'knowl 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



247 



XXVI. 

re B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PIC- 
TURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON 
THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA, 

IIaydon I let worthier judges praise the 

Slvlll 

Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
And (.harm of colors ; / applaud those signs 
Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill ; 
That unencumbered wliole of blank and still, 
Sky without cloud — ocean without a wave ; 
And the one Man that labored to enslave 
'I be World, sole-standing high on the bare 

hill- 
Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent 

face 
Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place 
With li:;ht reflected from the invisible sun 
j Set, like his fortunes ; but not set for aye 
I Like them. The unguilty Power pursues 
his way. 
And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 

XXVII. 

A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
Which Art hath lodged within his hand — 
j must laugh 

By precept only, and sheitears by rule. 
T'ly Art be Nature ; the live current quaff. 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
Have killed him, Scorn should write his 

epitaph. 
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom un- 
fold > 
Because the lovely little flower is free 
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
But from its own divine vitality. 



The most alluring clouds that mount the 

sky 
Owe to a troubled element their forms. 
Their hues to sunset, .f with rapturod eye 
We watch their splendor, shall we covet 

storms, 
And wish the Lord of day his slow decline 
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on 

high ? 
Behold, already they forget to shine, 
Dissolve — and leave to him who gazeda sigl;. 
Not loth to thank each moijjent for its boon 



Of pure dehght, come whencesoe'er it may, 
Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things 

attune 
Calm expectations : leaving to the gay 
And volatile their love of transient bowers. 
The house that cannc t pass away be ours. 

XXIX 

on a portrait of the duke of WEI 
LINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATER 
LOO, BV HAYDON. 

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and Wai 

horse stand 
On ground yet strewn with their last battle's 

wreck ; 
Let tl\e Steed glory while his Master'* hand 
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck ; 
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his 

side 
Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm 

a check 
Is given to triumph and all human pride ! 
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy 

speck 
In his calm presence ! Him the mighty 

deed 
Elates not, brought far nearer ths grave's 

rest. 
As shows that time-worn face, for he such 

seed 
Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of 

fame 
In Heaven ; hence no one blushes for thy 

name. 
Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts divinely 

blest ! 

XXX. 

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838, 

Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just 

begun, 
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide, 
Does joy approach ? they meet the coming 

tide ; 
And suUenness avoid, as now they shun 
Pale twilight's lingering glooms,— and in 

the sun 
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
Or gambol — each with his shadow at his 

side, 
Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
As they from turf yet hoar vvith sleepy dew 
All tun., and court the shining and the 

green, 
WluTO herbs look up, and opening flowers 

are seen ; 



248 



M ISC EL L A NE OUS SONNE TS. 



Why to God's goodness cannot We be true ? 
And so, His gifts and promises between, 
Feed to tlie last on pleasures ever new ? 

XXXI. 

Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 
trance. 

One upward hand, as if she needed rest 

From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! 

Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance ; 

But not the less — nay more — that counte- 
nance, 

While thus illumined, tells of painful strife 

For a sick heart made weary of this life 

By love, long crossed with adverse circum- 
stance, 

— Would She were now as when she hoped 
to pass 

At God's appointed hour to them who 
tread 

Heaven's sapphire pavement ; yet breathed 
well content, 

Well pleased, her foot should print earth's 
common grass, 

Lived thankful for day's light, for daily 
bread, 

For health, and time in obvious duty spent. 

XXXII. 
TO A PAINTER. 

All praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
trayed ; 

But tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 

Who, yielding not to changes 'J'ime has 
made. 

By the habitual light of memory see 

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot 
fade, 

And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er 
shall flee 

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms 

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 

Could'st thou go back into far-distant years. 

Or share with me, fond tliought ! that in- 
ward eye. 

Then, and then only. Painter ! could thy 
Art 

The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 

Which hold, whate'er to common sight 
appears, 

Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 

XXXIII. 
ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 

Though I beheld at first with blank sur- 
prise 
This Work, 1 now have gazed on it so long 



I see its tiuth with unreluctant eyes; 
0,-iny Beloved .'' 1 have done thee wrong, 
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it 

spruug, 
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
M^orn ioto noon did pass, noon into eve;, 
And the old day was welcome as the young, 
As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
More_ beautiful, as being a thing more holy: 
Thanks to thy virtues, to tlie eternal youth 
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
To thy large heart and humble mind, that 

cast 
Into one vision, future, present, past. 

XXXIV. 

Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, unde' 

prest. 
By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his 

strain 
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest. 
And seems, as more incited, still mere blest. 
Thanks ; thou hast snapped a fire-side 

Prisoner's chain. 
Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain. 
And in a moment charmed my cares to 

rest. 
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird « and front the 

blast. 
That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
!So loud, so clear, iiiy Partner through life's 

day. 
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love' 

built 
Lik? thine, shall gladden, as in seasons 

past. 
Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. 
Rydal Mount, 1838. 



'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain 
Beat hack the roaring storm — but how sub' 

dued 
His day-break note, a sad vicissitude I 
Does tlie hour's drowsy weight his glee 

restrain ? 
Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 
Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush 

attune 
His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon 
Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? 
Rise, tardy Sun ! and let the Songster 

prove 
(The balance trembling between night and 

moni 



MISCE LLANEOUS SONNE TS. 



249 



No longer) witli that ecstasy upborne 

He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven 
above, 

And earth below, they best can serve true 
gladness 

Who meet most feelingly the calls of sad- 
ness. 

XXXVI. 

Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien 

and speech ! 
Yet — though dread Powers, that work in 

mystery, spin 
Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows 

stretch 
O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far 

within 
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
She is not what slie -jecnis, a forlorn wretch, 
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
To Her from heights that Reason may not 

win. 
Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
Divine communion ; both do live and move, 
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways un- 
fold, 
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; 
Love pitying innocence not long to last. 
In them— in Her our sins and sorrows past. 



Intent on gathering wool from hedge and 

brake 
Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon 
A poor old Dame will bless them for the 

boon : 
Great is their glee while flake they add to 

flake 
With rial earnestness; far other strife 
Than will hereafter move them, if they 

make 
Pastime their idol, give their day of life 
To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's 

sake. 
Can pomp and show allay one heart-born 

grief.? 
Pains which the World inflicts can she 

requite ? 
Not for an interval however brief ; 
The silent thoughts that search for steadfast 

Love from her depths, and Duty in her 

might, 
And Faith — these only yield secure relief. 
March %th, 1842. 



A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAV, 1838. 

Failing impartial measure to dispense 
To every suitor. Equity is lame : 
And social Justice, stript of reverence 
For natural rights, a mockery and a shame , 
Law but a servile dupe of false pretence. 
If, guarding grossest things from common 

claim 
Now and forever, She, to works that came 
From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived 

fence. 
" What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie. 
For Books ! " Yes, heartless Ones, or be it 

proved 
That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and 

loved 
Like others, with like temporal hopes to 

die; 
No public harm that Genius from her 

course 
Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, 

even at their source ! 



valedictory sonnet. 

Ciosing lliP Volume c f Sonnets published in 
1838. 

Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have 

here 
Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn 

from spots 
Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered 

knots), 
Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; 
Both to allure the casual loiterer. 
And that, so placed, my Nurslings may 

requite 
Studious regard with opportune delight, 
Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. 
But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart 
Reader, farewell ! My last words let then 

be— 
If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; 
If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
Through It have won a passage to th) 

heart ; 
Grant me thy love, I crave no other feel 



250 



MfSCELLAMEOUS SONNETS. 



TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER WORDS- 
WORTH, D.D., MASTER OK HARROW 
SCHOOL, 

After the perusal of hisTheophilus Anglicanus, 

recently published. 
Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy 

hand 
Have 1 received this proof of pains be- 
stowed 
By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road 
That, in our native isle, and every land, 
Tlic Church, when trusting in divine com- 
mand 
And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod : 
O may these lessons be with profit scanned 
To thy heart's wish, thy lato'' blest by 

God! 
So tlie bright faces of the young and gay 
Shall look more bright — the hapny, happier 

still ; 
Catch, in tlie pauses of their keenest play. 
Motions cf thought which elevate the will 
And, like the Spire that from your classic 
Hill [way. 

Points heavenward, indicate the end and 
Rydal Mount ^ Dec. 11, 1843. 

XLI. 

TO THE PLANET VENUS. 

Upon its ajiproxinialion (as an Evening Star) to 

tlie Eartli, Jan., 183S. 
What strong allurement draws, what spirit 

guides. 
Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the 

nearer 
Tiiou com'st to man's abode the spot grew 

drearer 
rJii>ht after night ? True is it Nature hides 
Her treasures less and less. — Man now pre- 
sides 
In power, where once he trembled in his 

weakness : 
Science advances with gigantic strides f 
But are we aught enriched in love and 

meekness } 
Alight dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure 

and wise 
Mor tlian in humbler times graced hiim^n 

story ; [thize 

Thai makes our hearts more apt to sympa- 
With heaven, our souls more fit for future 

Slory, 
When earth shall vanish from our closing 

pyes, ^ 

Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 



XLII. 

Wansfell ! * this Household has a favored 

lot. 
Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
To watch while Morn first crowns Ihee with 

her rays. 
Or when along thy breast serenely float 
Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy 

praise 
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast 

brought 
Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
Bountiful Son of Eartlii" when wc are gone 
From every object dear to mortal sight. 
As soon wc shall be, may tliese words attest 
How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
Tliy visionary majesties of liglit, 
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found 

rest. 
Dec. 24, 1842. 

XLIII. 

While b- ams of orient lights shoot wide 

and higli. 
Deep in the vale a little rural Town t 
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its 

own, 
That mounts not toward the radiant morn- 
ing sky, 
But, with a less ambitious sympathy, 
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares, 
Troubles and toils that every day prepares. 
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, 
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her 

sway 
(Like influence never may my soul reject) 
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith 

decked 
With glorious forms in numberless array, 
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose 
Gleams from a world in which the saintj 
repose. 
Jan. I, 1S43. 

XLIV. 

In my mind's eyes a Temple, like a cloud 
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill. 
Rose out of darkness the bright Work 

stood still ; 
And might ot its own beauty have been 

proud. 
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
By Virtues that diffused, in every part. 
Spirit divine through forms of human art; 



* The Hill that rises to the south-east, abov* 
AmblP'^irle. 
t Ambleside. 



iMU^CELLAAEOUS SONAE TS. 



251 



Faith had her arcli — her arcli, wlicn winds 

blow loud. 
Into the consciousness of safety tlinllcd , 
And lovp her towers of dread foundation 

laid 
Under the grave of tilings ; Hope had her 

spire 
Star high, and pointing still to something 

higher ; 
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it 

said 
" Hell-gates arc powerless Phantoms when 

wc build."' 

XLV. 
ON THE PKOJECTinj KHNDAL AND WIN- 
DERMERE RAILWAY. 
Is then no nook of English ground secure 
I'lom rasli assault ? Sclicmes of retirement 

sown 
III j'outh, and mid the busy world kept pure 
As wiien their earliest flowers of hope were 

blown, 
Must perish ; — how can they this blight en- 
dure ? 
And must he too the ruthless change bc- 

n.oan 
Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
Mid l)is paternal fields at random thrown ? 
Bailie the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest- 

hcad 
Given to tlie pausing traveller's rapturous 

glance : 
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance 
Of nature ; and, if human hearts be dead. 
Speak, passing winds ; ye torrents, with 

your strong 
And constant voice, protest against the 

wrong. 
October 12, 1S44. 

XLVI. 

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times 

of old, 
Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, 
Intre iched your brows : ye gloried in each 

scar : 
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thi-rst 

of Gold, 
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, 
Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be 

sold. 
And clear wajniade for her triumphal car 
Tiirougii the beloved retreats your arms en- 
fold ! 
Heard Ye that Whistle? As her long- 
linked Train 



Swept onwards, did the vision cross your 

view 'i 
Yes, ye were startled ;— and, in balance true, 
Weighing the mischief with the promised 

gain. 
Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on 

you 
To share the passion of a just disdain. 

XLVII. 
AT FURNESS ABBEY. 

Here, where, of havoc tired and rash un 

doing, 
Man lelt this Structure to become Time'* 

A soothing Spirit follows in the way 
That Nature takes, her counter-work pursu- 
ing. 
See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin, 
Fall to prevent or beautify decay ; 
And, on the mouldered walls, liow bright, 

how gay. 
The flowers in pearly dews their bloom re- 
newing ! 
Thanks to the place, blessings upon the 

hour ; 
Even as 1 speak the rising Sun's first smile 
Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall 

Tower 
Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim 
Prescriptive title to the shattered pile 
Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but 
a name ! 

XLVIII. 
AT FURNESS ABBEY. 

Well have yon Railway Laborers to this 

ground 
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, 

they walk 
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk 
Is heard ; to grave demeanor all are bound ; 
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful 

sound 
Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire 
And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. 
Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire 
That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it 

was raised. 
To k( cp, so high in air, its strength and 

grace : 
All seem to feel the spirit of the place, 
And by the general reverence God is praised ; 
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, 
While thus these simple-hearted men are 

moved ? 
June 2ist, 1845. 



lALS OF 



A TOUR IN 

1S03. 



;COTLAND. 



DEPARTURE 

FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST, 
1803. 

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian 

plains 
Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; 
Even for the tenants of the zone that lies 
Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
Methinks 'twould heighten joy to overleap 
At will the crystal battlements, and j)eep 
Into some other region, though less fair, 
To see how things are made and managed 

there. 
Change for the worse might please, incur- 
sion bold 
Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 
O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer, 
And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. 
Such animation often do I find, 
Power in my breast, wings growing in my 

mind, ' 

Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 
Perchance without one look behind me cast, 
Some barrier with which Nature, from the 

birth 
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on 

earth. 
O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine : 
Not like an outcast with himself at strife ; 
The slave of business, time, or care for life. 
But moved by choice ; or, if constrained in 

part, 
Yet still with Nature's freedom at the 

heart ; — 
To cull contentment upon wildest --horcs, 
And luxuries extract from bleakest moors ; 
With prompt embrace all beauty to cnf(,!d, 
And having rights in all that we behold. 
—Then why these lingering .steps?— A 

bright adieu. 
For a brief absence, proves that love is true ; 
Ne'er can the way be irlcsome or forlorn 
That winds into itself for sweet return. 
(252} 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 

1803. 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH,, 

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold : 

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead. 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near 
And thou forbidden to appear 1 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay 
With chastened feelings would 1 pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius "glinted " forth, 
Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems, 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be they now? 
Full soon the Aspirant of the j)lough, 

The prompt, the brave. 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light 1 hailed when first it shone, 

And showed mv youth • 

Hnw \'erse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



253 



I 



Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
Regret pursues and with it blends,— 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 
Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined ; 
But lieart with heart and mind with, mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
Thou " poo' Inhabitant below,'' 
At this dread moment — even so — 

Miglit we together 
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been 

pL.ced 
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repi-.st ! 

But why go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

His grave grass-giown. 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his Father's sidej 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight. 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead. 

Harbored where none can be misled. 

Wronged, or distrest ; 
And surely here it may be said 

T)iat such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race, 
May He who halloweth the place 

Wiicre Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away; but ore 
Night fell 1 heard, or seemed to liear, 
Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chaunted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



III. 
THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, 0?1 
THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THl 
poet's RESIDENCE. 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
That must have f( llowed when his brow 
Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us 
how — 

With holly spray. 
He faltered, drifted to and fro, 

And passed away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 

throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief — 
Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. 

And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid Stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 
Tliink rather of those moments bright 
When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true, 
When Wisdom prosi:)ered in his sight. 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
Freely, as in youth's season bland, 
Wlien side by side, his Book in iiand, 

We wont to stray. 
Our pleasure varying at command 

Of each sweet Lay. 

How oft inspired must he have trodc 
These pathways, yon far-stretcliini; load 
There lurks his home; in that Alx)de, 

Witli mirth elate. 
Or in his nobly-pensive mood. 

The Rustic sate. 

Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 

Before it humbly let us pause. 

And ask of Nature, trc^m what cause 

And by vvliat r'.iles 
She trained her Burns to win applause 

That shames the Schoulik. 



254 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



Throu'j;h busiest street and loneliest glen 
Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 
He rules mid winter snows, and 

Bees fill their hives ; 
Deep in the general heart of men 

His power survives. 

What need of fields in some far clime 
Wliere Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
'\nd all that fetched the flowing rhyme 

From genuine springs, 
Shall dwell together till old Time 

Folds up his wings ? 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavor. 
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven 

Effaced forever. 

But why to Him confine the prayer, 

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 

On the frail heart the purest share 

With all that live ?— 
The best of what we do and are, 

Just God, forgive ! 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

^FTER VISITING THE GRAVE OK TIIHIR 
FATHER. 

" The Poet's grave is in a corner of tlie church- 
yard. We looked at it with melancholy and 
painful reflections, repeatnig to each other 
his own verses — 
" ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c." 
— Extract frovt the Journal of my Fellow- 
traveller. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

1 sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 

With sorrow true ; 
hsiA more would grieve, but that it turns 

Trembling to you ! 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display ; 
If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 



Hath nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemperance with less harm, beware 1 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour— of tenfold care 

There will be need ; 

For honest men delight will take 
To spare your failings for his sake, 
Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue ; 
And of yoijr Father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
And add your voicjs to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet; 

Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows,' 
He paid to nature tuneful vows; 
Or wiped his honorable brows 

Bedewed with toil. 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturned the soil ; 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given : 
Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 

Is Jight from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave; 
Be independent, generous, brave; 
Your Father sucli example gave. 

And such revere ; 
But be admonished by his grave, 

And think, and fear! 



1 



ELLEN IRWIN: 



THE BRAES OF KIKTLE. 

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
Adorned with wreaths of mvrtle ; 



* The Kiltie is a river in tlie southern pai t 
I of Scotland, on the banks of which the eveoiS 
i here related took place. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



2S5 



Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
And there did they bec;uile the day 
Witli love and gentle speeches, 
Beneath the budd-ng beeches. 

From many knights and many squires 
The Bruce had bicn selected ; 
And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
l'>y Ellen was rejected. 
Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
If Bruce had loved sincerely. 
That Gordon loves as dearly. 

But what are Gordon's, form and face, 
His shattered hoi)cs and crosses. 
To them, 'mid Kirtle's- pleasant braes, 
Reclined on flowers and okjsscs ? 
Alas that ever he was born ! 
'J'he Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
Sees th^in and their caressing ; 
Beholds them blest and blessing. 

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
Tliat through his brain are travelling, 
Rushed forth, and at the iv?art of Bruce 
fie launched a deadly javelin ! 
Fair Ellen saw it as it came. 
And, starting up to meet the same, 
Did with her body cover 
The Youth, her chosen lover. 

And, falling into Bruce's arms, 
Tl\us died the beauteous Ellen, 
Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
The mortal spear repelling. 
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain ; 
And fought with rage incessant 
Against "the Moorish crescent. 

But.many days and many months. 
And many years ensuing, 
T!us wretched Knight did vainly seek 
The death tliat he was wooing. 
So, coming his last help to crave, 
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
His body he extended, 
And there his sorrow ended. 

Now ye, who willingly have heard 
The tale I have been telling. 
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view 
The grave of lovely Ellen : 
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid ; 
And, for the stone upon his head, 
May no rude hand deface it, 
And its forlorn Ijic JilfCt ! 



VI. 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(AT INVERSNEYDE,UPON LOCH LOMOXU ] 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks ; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake ; 
This little bay ; a quiet road 
Tiiat holds in shelter tiiy Abode— 
In truth together do ye seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ; 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart ; 
(u)d shield thee to thy latest years! 
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away T 
F"or never saw I mien, or face. 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed. 
Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer; 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred I 
And seemlincss complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restramt, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English sjjccch : 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life I 
So have 1, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful '\ 
O haijpy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell : 



250 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A Shepherd, though a Shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wish fur thee 
More like a grave reality 
Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea : and J would have 
Some claim upon thee, if 1 could, 
Tiiough but of common neighborhood 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
Thy elder Brother I would be. 
Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have 1 had ; and going hence 
1 bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes . 
Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
1 feel this place was made for her : 
To give vttw pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
As fair before me shall behold 
As I do now the cabin small, 
'J'he lake, the bay, the waterf.dl ; 
And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



GLEN- ALMA IN ; 

OR, 
THE NARROW OLE N. 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen \ 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

JUit one meek streamlet, only one : 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death ; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent ; [wild. 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were 

Aiul everything unreconciled ; 

In some complaining, dim retreat, 

I'or fear and melancholy meet ; 

But this is calm ; there cannot be 

A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed .? 
Or is it but a groundless creed i 
Wlnt matters it? — I blame them not 
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 



Was moved ; and in such way expressed 

Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell. 
Would break the silence of this Dell , 
It IS not quiet, is not ease , 
But something deeper far tlian these- 
The separation that is here 
Is of the grave ; and of austere 
Yet happy feelings of the dead 
And, therefore, was it rightly said 
That Ossian, last of all his race! 
Lies buried in this lonely place 



STEPPING WESTWARD. 

Willie iny Fellow-traveller and I were walkinj^ 
by llie side of Locli Ketterine, one fine even- 
ing after sunset, in Dur road to a Hut wliere, 
in the course of cut Tour, we had lieen hos- 
pitably entertained some weeks before, we 
met, in one of the loneliest jtarts of that soli- 
tary region, two well-dressed Women, one ( { 
whom said to us, by way of greeting, " What, 
you are stepping westward ? '' 

" What, yoii are sieppitig wcshvard? *~ 

— 'Twould be a zvildish destiny. 

If we, who thus together roam 

In a strange Land, and far from home, 

W^ere in this place the guests of Chance 

Vet who would stop, or fear to advance, 

Though home or shelter he had none. 

With such a sky to lead him on 1 

The dewy ground was dark and cfild ; 
liehind, all gloomy to behold ; 
And stepping westward seemed to be 
A kind of heavoily destiny . 
I liked tlie greeting; 'twas a sound. 
Of something without ]ilace or bound: 
And seemed to give me spiritual right 
To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake : 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of courtesy: 

Its power was felt; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 

The echo of the voice enwrought 

A human sweetness witli the thought 

Of travelling through tlie world that Jay 

Before me in my endless way. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



2r 



1-) 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Von solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by hcrselt ; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen I for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever cliaimt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Amo:ig Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago ; 

Or is it some more humble lay. 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again 1 

Whate'cr the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart 1 bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



X. 

ADDRESS 

TO 



KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 

From the lop of the hill a most impressive 
scene opened upon our view, — a ruined Castle 
on an Island (for an Island tlie flood liad made 
it) at some distance from tlie shore, backed 
by a Cove of tlie Mountain Cruachan, down 
which came a foaminsi stream. The Castle 
occupied every foot of the Island that was 
vijible to us, appearing to rise out of the 
water, — mists rested upon the mouutam side, 
with sjwts of sunshine ; liiere was a mild 
desolation in the low jirounds, a so'emn 
grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle 
wa$ wild, yet stately— not dismantled of tur- 



rets — nor the walls broken down, thtrtigh o')« 
viously a ruin." — Extract frotn the yourual 
0/ )ny Cojnpanion. 

Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain 

Stream 
Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds 

are caught 
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 
Oh ! there is life that breathes not ; Powers 

there are 
That touch each otherto theciuickin modes, 
Which the gross world 110 sense hath to 

perceive, 
No soul to dream of. What art Tiiou, from 

care 
Cast off— abandoned by thy n.gged Sire, 
Nor by soft Peace adopted ; tiiough,in place 
And in dimension, such that thou might'st 

seem 
But a mere footstool to ycMi sovereign I-ord, 
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered 

harm ;) 
Yet he, not loth, in favor of thy claims 
To reverence, suspends his own ; subhiit- 

ting 
All that the God of Nature hath conferred. 
All that he Imlds in common with the stars. 
To the mrimnrial majesty of Time 
Impersonated in thy ralm decay I 

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent urre]mivcd ! 
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening 

light 
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front. 
Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
Whose mountains, torrents, lak'\ and woods, 

unite 
To pay tl.ee homage ; and with these are 

joined. 
In wilhng admiration and respect, 
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might 

be called 
Youthful as Spring.— Shade of departed 

Power, 
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, 
The chronicle were welcome that should call 
Into the compass of distinct regard 
The toils and struggles of thy infant years I 
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; 
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 
Frozen bv distance ; so, majestic Pile, 
To the perception of this Age, appear 



^^58 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTl.AIVD. 



Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 
And quieted in diameter — the strife, 
Tiic pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
Lost on the ai^rial heights of tlie Crusades ! * 



XI. 

ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known ; 
his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, 
in one of those small piufoid-like I'urial- 
grounds, of neglected and desolate apiteai- 
ancc, which the traveller meets with in tjic 
Highlands of Scotland. 

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
'i'he English ballad-singer's joy ! 
And Scotland has a thief as good, 
An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
She has her brave Ron Rov ! 
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 
And let us chant a passing stave, 
In honor of that Hero brave! 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
And wondrous length and strength ot r.rm ; 
Nor craved he more to quell his foes. 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the praise be strong : — 
A I'oet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave j 
As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
For in the principles of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
They stir us up against our kind ; 
And worse, against ourselves. 

We have a passion — make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

And puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few 
These find I graven on my heart: 
That tells me what to do. 



*The tradition is, that the Castle was built by 
B Lady during the absence of lier Lord in 
Pales tiae. 



The creatures see of flood and field. 
And those that travel on the wind! 
With them no strife can last ; they i* 
In peace, and peace of mind. ' 

For why ? — because the good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
That they should take who have the power 
And they should keep who can. 

A lesson that is quickly learned, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
To wanton cruelty. 

All freakishness of mind is checked, 
He tamed, who fooJishly as])ires ; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall 
I!y strength of prowess or of wit : 
'Tis God's apjiointment who must sway, 
And who is to submit. 

Since, then, the rule of right is plain. 
And longest life is but a day; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived, 
Through summer heat and winter snow 
The Eagle, he was lord above, 
And Rob was lord below. 

So was it — 7vould, at least, liave been 
Cut through untowardness of fate; 
For Polity was then too strong — 
He came an age too late ; 

Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold Man living nozi>, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
Witli buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, 
Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 

Rob Roy had never lingered here. 
To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
But thought how wide the woild, the times 
How fairly to his mind 1 

And to his Sword he woidd have said, 
" Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the earth I 
Judge thou of law and fact! 



I 



!l 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



259 



'Tis fie that \vc shoiikl do our part, 
F^ec niin;;, tli;it ni.nkind should Iciirii 
That we .ire not to be surpassed 
III fatlicrly concern. 

Of old things all arc over old, 
Of good things none are good enough ; — 
We'll show that wc can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death : 
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 

And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
As iiii'ght have been, then, tlioui^ht of jov ! 
1'" ranee would have had her present Boast, 
And wc our own Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so; compare them not ; 
1 woi.'Id not wrong tlice. Champion brave ! 
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 

l'"or Thou, although with some wild 

thoughts. 
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
J la 1st this to bcKist of ; thou didst love 

The liberty of man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
Witii us who now behold tl^ lig'it. 
Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself, 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
Tiie poormans heart, the poor man's hand ; 
And all theopjiressed, who wanted strength, 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
Of tlioughtful Herdsman when he strays 
Alone upon Loch Vool's heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 

And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
Are faces that attest the same ; 
The proud heart flashing through the eyes, 
At sound of Roii Rov's name 



XII. 

SONNET. 

COMPOSED AT C.\STLE. 

Degener.'\te Douglas ! oh, the unworthy 

Lord 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far 

please, 



.^nd love of havoc, (for with such disease 
Fame t.ixcs him,) that he could send forth 

word 
To level with the dust a noble horde, 
A bi otherhood of venerable 'J'rces, 
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like 

these, 
Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts de- 
plored 
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with 

pain 
The traveller, at this day, will stop and 

gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems 1( 

heed : 
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and 

bays. 
And the pure mountains, and the gentle 

Tweed, , 

And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 



XIII. 

YARROW UNVLSITED. 

(See the various Poems the scene of which is 
laid upon the banks of the Yarrow : in par- 
ticular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, 
beginning, — 

" Rusk ye, busk yc, my bonny, hoiuiy Hrirlc, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " — ) 

From Stirling castle .ve had seen 

The ruazy Forth imravellcd ; 

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 

And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " rvhisojiie Marroxv^'* 

" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow ioW, frac Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling. 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 

Each maiden to her dwelling! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed; 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming 

Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with ploufjh and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow l 



7.6o 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
That glides the dark hills under ? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 
"Strange words they seemed of slight and 

scorn ; 
My True-love sighed for sorrow; 
And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh 1 green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,* 

But we will leave it growing. 

O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 

But, though so near, we will not turn 

\nto the dale of Yarrow. 

/-et beeves and hom*c-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go, 
To-day, not yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ' 
It must, or v/e shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our owm : 
Ah ! why should we undo it .? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! * 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

If Care with freezing years should come. 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



XIV. 

SONNET 



Against an equal host that wore the plaid. 
Shepherds and herdsmen, — Like a whirl 

wind came 
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like 

flame ; 
And Garry, thundering down his mountain. 

road. 
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath 

the load 
Of the dead bodies. — 'Twas a day of shame 
For them whom precept and the pedantry 
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
O for a single hour of that Dundee 
Who on that da} the word of onset gave ! 
Like conquest would the Men of England 

see ; 
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 



IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, 

An invasion being expected, October, 1S03. 

Six thousand veterans practised in war's 

game. 
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 



♦ Sec Hamilton's Ballad as above. 



THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
AND HER HUSBAND. 

At Jedborough, my companion and I went into 
private lodgings for a few days ; and tlie fol- 
lowing Verses were called forth by tlu: char- 
acter and domestic situation of our Hostess. 

Age ! twine thy brows witli fresh spring 

flowers. 
And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
And bid them dapce, and bid them sing ; 
And thou, too, mingle in the ring I 
Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
If not, make merry in despite 
That there is One who scorns thy power :^ 
But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower 
A Matron dwells who, though slie bears 
Tlie weight of more than seventy years, 
Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
And she will dance and sing with thee. 

Nay! start not at that Figure—there' 
Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
Look at him — look again ! for he 
Hath long been of thy family. 
With legs that move not, if they can, 
And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
He sits, and with a vacant eye ; 
A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 
Deaif, drooping, that is now his doom ; 
His world is in this single room : 
Is this a place for mirthful cheer .'' 
Can merry-making enter here ? 

The joyous Woman is the Mate 
Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
But bright as Vesper shines her lanap; 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



261 



He is as mute as Jedborough Tower ; 
She jocund as it was of yore, 
With all its bravery on ; in times 
When all alive with merry chimes, 
Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
It roused the Vale to holiday. 

I praise thee. Matron ! and thy due 
Is praise, heroic p-aise, and true ! 
Witli admiration I behold 
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
Tiie picture of a life well spent: 
This do I see ; and something more; 
A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
Delighted am 1 for thy sake; 
And yet a higher joy partake : 
(hir Human-nature throws away 
Its second twilight, and looks gay ; 
A )and of promise and of pride 
Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 

Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
Within himself as seems, composed; 
To fe;u of loss, and hope of gain, 
The strite of happiness and pain, 
Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
Of little infants, when their eyes 
Begin to follow to and fro 
The persons that before them go, 
He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
Wliere common cheerfulness would fail ; 
She strikes upon him witli the heat 
Of July suns ; he ieels it sweet ; 
An animal delight though dim ! 
'Tis all that now remains for him. 

The more 1 looked, I wondered more — 
And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
Some inward trouble suddenly 
Lroke from tlie Matron's strong black eye- 
A remnant of un asy light, 
A Hash of something over-bright ! 
Nor long this mystery did detain 
My thoughts ; — she tokl in pensive strain 
That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
Keen stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
111 health of body ; and had i)ined 
beneath worse ailments of the mirid. 

So be it !— but let praise ascend 
To Him who is our Lord and friend I 
Wiio from thsease and suffering 
Hatii called for thee a second spring; 
Kepaid thee for that sore distress 
IJy no untimely " .«yousness ; 
Wiiicli makes of thine a blissful state; 
And cheers thy melancholy Mute I 



Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 

dale ! 
Say that we come, and come by this day's 

light ; 
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and 

height. 
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; 
There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,^ 
And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
Of near-approaching good that shall not 

fail ; 
And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child— 
Tliat hath I'.er six weeks' solitude beguiled 
With intimations manifold and dear. 
While we have wandered over wood and 

wild- 
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 



XVII. 

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIUE, AFTER 
RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRAS- 
MERE. 

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
Have lomped enough, my little Boy! 
Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
And you shall bring your stool and rest; 
This corner is your own. 

There ! take your seat, and let me see 
That you can listen quietly : 
And, as 1 promised, I will tell 
'J'hat strange adventure, which befell 
A poor blind Highland Boy. 

A Highland boy !— why call him so ? 
Because, my Darlings, ye nuist know 
That, under hills which rise like tower 
Far higher hills than these of ours! 
He from his birth had lived. 

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight ; 
Tlie sun, the day ; the stars, the night; 
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, 
Or fish in stream, or bird in tower. 
Or woman, man, or child, 

A nd yet he neither drooped nor j)ined, 
Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
I'or (iod took pity on the Boy, 
And was his friend ; and gave him joy 
01 which we nothing know. 



262 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



His Mother, too, no doubt above 
Her other children him did love ; 
For, was she here, or was she there, 
She thought of him with constant care, 
And more than mother's love. 

And proud she was of heart, when clad 
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, 
And bonnet with a feather gay, 
!l"o Kirk he on the Sabbath day 
Went hand in hand with her. 

A dog, too, had he ; not for need. 
But one to play witli and to feed ; 
Which would have led him, it bereft 
Of company or friends, and left 
Without a better guide. 

And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
And thus from house to house would go ; 
And all were pleased to hear and see, 
For none n>ade sweeter melody 
Than did the poor blind J>oy. 

Yet he had many a restless dream ; 
Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
And when he heard the torrents roar, 
And heard the water beat the shore. 
Near which their cottage stood 

Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; 
But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
That, rough or smooth, is full of change. 
And stirring in its bed. 

For to this lake, by night and day 
The great Sea-water finds its way 
Through long, long windings of the hills, 
And drinks up all the prjtty rills 
And rivers large and strong : 

Then hurries back the road it came — 
Returns, on errand still the same ; 
This did it when the earth was new ; 
And this for evermore will do, 
As long as earth shall last. 

And, with the coming of the tide, 
Come boats and ships that safely ride 
Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
And to the shepherds with their flocks 
Bring tales of distant lands. 

And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
The blind Boy always had his share ; 
Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
With warmer suns and softer gales, 
Or wonders of the Deep. 



Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, 
When from the water-side he heard 
The shouting, and the jolly cheers; 
The bustle of the mariners 
In stiUness or in storm. 

But what do his desires avail ? 
For He must never handle sail ; 
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, 
Upon the rocking waves. 

His Mother often thought, and said. 
What sin would be upon her head 
If she should suffer this : " My Son, 
Wiiate'cr you df), leave this undone ; 
The danger is so great." 

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side 
Still sounding with the sounding tide. 
And heard the billows leap and dance, 
Without a shadow of mischance, 
Till he was ten years old. 

When one day (and now mark me well. 
Ye soon shall know how this befell) 
He in a vessel of his own. 
On the swift flood is hurrying down, 
Down to the mighty Sea, 

In such a vessel never more 
May human creature leave the shore f 
If tlws or that way he shoidd stir, 
Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
For death will be his doom. 

But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, 
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright 
Gifts which, for wonder or delight, 
Are brought in ships from far. 

Such gifts had those seafaring men 
Spread round that haven in the glen ; 
Each hut, perchance, might have its own; 
And to tlie Boy they all were known — 
He knew and prized them all. 

The rarest was a Turtle-shell 
Which he, poor Child, had studied well ; 
A shell of ample size, and light 
As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 
That sportive dolphins drew. 

And, as a Coracle that braves 
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
Tliis shell upon the deep would swim, 
And gayly lift its fearless brim 
Above the tossing surge. 



Ji 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



203 



And this the little blind Boy knew ; 
And he a story strange yet true 
Had lieard, how in a shell like this 
An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 
Had stoutly launched from shore ; 

Launched from the margin of a bay 
Among the Indian isles,''vvhere L.y 
His father's ship, and had sailed far - 
To join that gallant ship of war, 
In his delightful shell. 

Our Highland Boy oft visited 
The house that held this prize ; and, led 
By choice or chance, did tiiitiier conie 
One day when no one was at home, 
And found the door unbarred. 

While there he sate, alone and blind, 
That story flashed upon his mmd ; — 
A bold thought roused him, and he took 
The shell from out its secret nook. 
And bore it on his head. 

He launched his vessel,— and in pride 
Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side. 
Stepped into it— his thoughts all tree 
As the light breezes that with glee 

Sang through the adventurer's hair 

A while he stood upon his feet; 
He felt the motion— took his seat ; 
Still better pleased as more and more 
The tide retreated from the sliore. 
And sucked, and sucked him in. 

And there he is in face of Heaven. 
How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
The fourth part of a mile, I ween, 
He thus had gone, ere he was seen 

By any human eye. 

But when he was first seen, oh me, 
What shrieking and what misery i 
For many saw ; among the rest 
His Mother, she who loved him best, 
She saw her poor blind Boy. 

But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
It is the triumph of his joy ! 
The bravest traveller in balloon, 
Mounting as if to reach the m- on, 
Was never half so blessed. 

And let him, let him go his way, 
Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
For, if good Angels love to wait 
On the forlorn unfortunate, 

This Child will take no harm. 



But now the passionate lament. 
Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
The cries which broke from old and younr 
In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 
Are stifled— all is still. 

And quickly with a silent crew 
A boat is ready to pursue : 
And from the shore their course they take, 
And swiftly down the running lake 
They follow the blind Boy. 

But soon they move with softer pace. 
So have ye seen the fowler chase 
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 
With deftly-lifted oar ; 

Or as the wily sailors crept 
To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
The hapless creature which did dwell 
Erewhile within the dancing shell. 
They steal upon their prey. 

With sound the least that can be made, 
They follow, more and more afraid. 
More cautious as they draw more near ; 
But in his darkness he can hear. 
And guesses their intent. 

" Lei-gha—Lei-gha "—he then cried out, 
" Lei-gha—Lei-gha "—with eager shout ; 
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
And leave me to myself ! " 

Alas ! and when he felt their hands 

You've often heard of magic wands, 
That with a motion overthrow 
A palace of the proudest show. 
Or melt it into air ; 

So all his dreams — that inward light 
With which his soul had shone so bright- 
All vanished ;— 'twas a heartfelt cross" 
To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
As he had ever known. 

But hark ! a gratulating voice, 
With which the very hills rejoice : 
'Tis from tlve crowd, who trembling 
Have watched the event, and now can see 
That he is safe at last. 

And then, when he was brought to land. 
Full sure they were a hajipy band, 
Which gathering round, did on the banks 
Of that great Water give God thanks, 
And welcomed the poor Child. 



»64 



MEMORIAL S OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



And in the general joy of heart 
The blind Boy s little dog took part ; 
He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
His master's hands in sign of bliss, 
With sound like lamentation. 

But most of all, liis Mother dear, 
She who hnd fainted with her fear, 
Rejoiced when waking she espies 
The Child ; when she can trust her eyes, 
And touches the blind Doy. 

She led him home, and wept amain, 
Wlicn lie was in tiie house again : 
Tears (lowed in torrents from her eyes, 
She kissed liim — how could she chastise ? 
She was too happy far. 

Thus, after he had fondly braved 

The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ; 



And, though his fancies had been wild, 
Vet lie was pleased and reconciled 
To live in peace on shore. 

And in the lonely Highland dell 
Still do they keep the '1 urtJe shell ; 
And long the story will repeat 
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 
And how he was preserved. 

Note. — It is recorded in Dampiev's Voyatres 
that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-nf-War 
seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in 
it from the shore to his f^^ther's ship, which lay 
at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In 
deference to the opinion of a Friend, I liave 
substituted such a shell for the less elegant ves- 
sel in whicii my blind Voyaj^er did actually en- 
trust himself to the dangerous current of Loch 
Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witne»«. 



/ 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 

1814. 



I. 

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON 
ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMONU, 
A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF 
A SOLITARY INDIVIUUAL, FROM WHOM 
THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE 
NAME OF 

THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 



To barren heatli, bleak Moor, and quaking 

fen, 
Or depth of labyrinthine glen ; 
Or into trackless forest set 
With trees, wliose lofty umbrage rret ; 
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore : 
( Penance their trust, and prayer their store ;) 
And in the wilderness were bound 
To such apartments as they found ; 
Or witli a new ambition raised ; 
That God might suitably be praised. 



High lodged the IVayrwr, like a bird of 

prey ; 
Or where broad waters round him lay : 
But this wild Ruin is no ghost 
Of his devices — buried, lost ! 
Within this little lonely isle 
There stood a consecrated Pile ; 
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung. 
For them whose timid Spirits clung 
To mortal succor, though the tomb 
Had fixed, forever fixed, their doom! 



Upon those servants of another world 
When maddening power her bolts 

hurled. 
Their habitation shook ; — it fell. 
And perished, save one narrow cell ; 
Whither at length, a Wretch retired, 
Who neither grovelled nor aspired : 
He, struggling in the net of pride. 
The future scorned, the past defied ; 
Still tempering, from the unguilty forgf 
Oi vain conceit, an iron scourge I 



had 



IV. 

Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
Who stood and flourished face to lace 
With their perennial hills ; — Inil Crime, 
Hastening the stern decrees of Tune, 
Brought low a Power, which from its home 
Burst, when repose grew wearisome ; 
And, taking impulse from the sword, 
And, mocking its own plighted word, 
Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 
Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt! 

V. 

All, all were dispossessed, save him whose 

smile 
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
No right had lie but what he made 
To this small spot, his leafy shade; 
But the ground lay within that ring 
To which he only dared to cling ; 
Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
The craven few who bowed the head 
Beneath the change ; who heard a claim 
How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 

VI. 

From year to year this shaggy Mortal went 
(So seemed it) down a strange descent : 
Till they who saw his outward frame 
Fixed on him an unhallowed name; 
Him, free from all malicious taint. 
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, 
A pen unwearied — to indite. 
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night ; 
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
The faded glories of his Clan ! 

VII. 

Suns that through blood their western h:ir 
bor sought. 

And stars that in their courses fought •. 

Towers rent, winds combating with wood.. 

Lands deluged by unbridled floods; 

And beast and bird that from the spell 
I Of sleep took import terrible ; — 
I These types mysterious (if the show 

Of battle and the routed foe 

Had failed) would furnish an array 

Of matter for the dawning day I 

(265) 



266 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



How disappeared He? — ask the newt and 

toad, 
Inheritors of his abode ; 
The otter crouching undisturbed, 
In her dank cleft ; — but be thou curbed, 
O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
Of asfject winning and serene ; 
For those offensive creatures shun 
The inquisition of the sun ! 
And in this region flowers delight, 
And all is lovely to the sight. 

IX. 

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, 
When she applies her annual test 
To dead and living ; wlien her breath 
Quickens, as now, the withered heath ; — 
Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws 
His soul into the briar-rose ; 
Or calls the lily from her sleep 
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep ; 
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 



Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot 
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot ; 
Whither, by caie of Libyan Jove, 
(High Servant of paternal Love) 
Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; 
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, 
Close-crowding round the infant-god ; 
All colors, — and the liveliest streak 
A foil to his celestial cheek ! 



COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 

IN SIGHT OF Wallace's tower. 

" How Wallace {ought for Scotland, left the 

name 
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
All over iiis dear Country ; left tiie deeds 
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts. 
To people the steep rocks and river banks. 
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
Of independence and stern liberty." MS. 

Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood ; 
The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
And vibrates, to its central stone, 
Yon time-cemented Tower 1 



And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
Beneficent as strong ; 
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
The little trembling flowers that peep 
Thy shelving rocks among. 

Hence all who love their country, love 
To look on thee — delight to rove 
Where they thy voice can hear ; 
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
In dust, that voice is dear 1 

Along thy banks, at dead of night 
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; 
Or stands, in warlike vest. 
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
A Champion worthy of the stream, 
Yon gray tower's living crest ! 

But clouds and envious darkness hide 
A form not doubtfully descried : — 
Their transient mission o'er, 
O say to what blind region flee 
These Shapes of awful phantasy .'' 
To what untrodden shore .'' 

Less than divine command they spurn ; 
But this we from the mountains learn, 
.And this the valleys show ; 
That never will they deign to hold 
Communion where the heart is cold 
To human weal and woe. 

The man of abject soul in vain 
Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; 
Or thrid the shadowy gloom 
That still invests the guardian Pass 
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
Devoted to the tomb. 

And let no Slave his head incline, 
Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
By Uri's lake, where Tell 
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land 
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
That day the Tyrant fell. 



III. 
EFFUSION, 

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THB 
BANKS OK THE BRAN, NEAR DUN 
KELD. 

" Tlie waterf.ill, by a loud ronrifijj, warned 
us when we must expect it. We were first, 
liuwever, conducted into a small apartment, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



267 



where the Gardener desired us to look at a 
picture of Ossian, wliich, wliile he was telling 
the history of tiie youug Artt^t who executed 
the work, disappeared, parting in the middle- 
fly ng asunder as by the toiicii of magic — and 
!o ! we are at the entrance of a splendid apart- 
:iient, which was almost dizzy and alive with 
waterfails, that tumbled in ail directions, the 
^reat cascade, opposite the window which faced 
us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon 
the cei iiig and against the w^W's,.'"— Extract 
from the Journal of my Fellozu- Traveller. 

Wh\t He — who, mid the kindred throng 

Oi Hcioes that inspired his song, 

Doth yet frequent the liill of storms, 

The stars dim-twinkling through their forms I 

What ! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 

Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall ; 

To serve — an unsuspected screen 

For sliovv tliat must not yet be seen ; 

And, when the moment comes, to part 

And vanish by mysterious art ; 

Head, harp, and body, spl't asunder, 

For ingress to a world of wonder ; 

A gay saloon, with waters dancing 

Upon tlie sight wherever glancing ; 

One loud cascade in front, and lo ! 

A thousand like it, white as snow^ 

Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 

As active round the hollow dome. 

Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors 

Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors. 

That catch the pageant from the flood 

Thundering adown a rocky wood. 

What pains to dazzle and confound ! 

What strife of color, s.iape and sound 

In this quaint medley, that might seem 

Devised out of a sick man's dream ! 

Strange scene; fantastic and uneasy 

As ever made a maniac dizzy. 

When disenchanted from the mood 

That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 

O Nature — in thy changeful visions. 
Through all thy most abrupt transitions 
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime — 
Ever averse to pantomime, 
Thee neither do they know nor us 
Thy servants, who can trifle thus ; 
Else verily the sober powers 
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, 
Exalted by congenial sway 
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay. 
And Names that moulder not away. 
Had wakened some redeeming thought 
More worthy of this favored Spot ; 
Recalled some feeling — to set free 
The Bard from sucli indignity ! 



* The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
I once beheld, a Templar Knight ; 
Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
On tombs, with palms together prest, 
But sculptured out of living stone, 
And standing upright and alone. 
Both hands with rival energy 
Employed in setting his sword free 
From its dull sheath — stern sentinel 
Intend to guard St. Robert's cell , 
As if with memory of the affray 
Far distant, when, as legends say. 
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force 
From its dear home the Hermit's corse, 
That in their keeping it might lie. 
To crown their abbey's sanctity. 
So had they rushed into the grot 
Of sense despised, a world forgot. 
And torn him from his loved retreat, 
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
Still hint that quiet best is found. 
Even by the Living, under ground ; 
But a bold Knight^ the selfish aim 
Defeating, put the Monks to shame. 
There where you see his Image stand 
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
Which lingering NiD is proud to show 
Reflected in the pool belowr. 

Thus, like the men of earliest days, 
Our sires set forth their grateful praise , 
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
But, nursed in mountain solitude, 
Might some aspiring artist dare 
To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
A ghost, by glimpses, may present 
Of imitable lineament, 
And give the phantom an array 
That less should scorn the abandoned clay ; 
Then let him hew with patient stroke 
An Ossian out of mural rock. 
And leave the figurative Man— 
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! — 
Fixed, like the" Templar of the steep, 
An everlasting watch to keep ; 
With local sanctities in trust, 
M(Me precious than a hermit's dust ; 
And virtues through the mass infused. 
Which old idolatry abused. 

What though the Granite would deny 
All fervor to the sightless eye ; 
And touch from rising suns in vain 
Solicit a Memnonian strain ; 



* On the banks of the River Nid, neai 
Knarcsborough. 



268 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, 

Tlie wind niigiit force tiie deep-grooved harp 

To utter melancholy moans 

Not unconnected with the tones 

Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones ; 

While grove and river notes would lend, 

Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 

Vain pleasures of luxurious life. 
Forever with yourselves at strife ; 
Through town and country both deranged 
Hy affectations interchanged. 
And all the perishable gauds 
That heaven-deserted man applauds ; 
When will your hapless pations learn 
To watcii and jwndcr— to discern 
The freshness, the everlasting youth, 
Of admiration sprung from truth ; 
From beauty infinitely growing 
Upon a mind with love o'erHowing — 
To sound the depths of every Art 
That seeks its wisdom through the heart ? 

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced 
With baubles of theatric taste, 
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers 
On motley bands of alien flowers 
In stiff confusion set or sown, 
Till Nature cannot find her own, 
Or keep a remnant of the sod 
W^liich Caledonian Heroes trod) 
1 mused ; and, thirsting for redress, 
Recoiled into the wilderness. 



YARROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814. 

(Seepage 259). 

And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air. 

That fills my heart with sadness I 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled n.eanderings , 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted j 



For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

is round the rising sun d.ffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection : 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Oi Yarrow Vale lay bleeding .'' 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

Or. which the herd is feeding ; 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the grove, 
The leafy grove that covers ; 
And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
Tlie unconquerable strength of love ; 
I5ear witness, rueful Yarrow I 

r?ut thou, that didst appear so fair 

'J"o fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom^ 

For sportive youth to stray in ! 

For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

Tlie brood of chaste affection. 



I 



POEMS OF THE /MA GIN AT/ON. 



iOq 



How sweet on this autumnal (lay, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And nn my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'Twcre no offence to reason ; 

The sober hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
A ray of fancy still survives — 
Ker sunshine plays upon thee ! 



Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A co'.irse of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes n)y hps can breathy 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanislf; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad tliought, which I would banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me— to licigliten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sunow. 



pop:ms dedicated to national indepen- 
dence AND liberty. 



PART 



COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR 
CALAIS, AUGUST, l8o2. 

Fair Star of evening. Splendor of the west> 
Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's 

brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to 

sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to 

rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and 

should'st wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, 

drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky 

spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she 

lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one 

lot,^ 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear ' 
For mv dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
Among men who do not love her, linger 

here. 



CALAIS, AUGUST, l8o2. 

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind, 
Or what is it that ye go forth to see .? 
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low 

degree, 
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, 

and blind, 
Post foi ward all, like creatures of one kind, 
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the 

knee 
In France, before the new-bun Majesty. 
'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
But that's a loyal virtue, never sown 
In haste, nor springing with a transient 

shower : 
When truth, when sense, when liberty were 

flown. 
What hardship had it been to wait an hour ? 
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery 

prone ! 



COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD 
LEADING TO ARDRES, AUGUST 7, l8o2. 

Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
Went pacing side by side, this iiublic Wa/ 



270 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous 

day,* 
When faith was pledged to new-born 

Liberty : 
A homeless sound of joy was in the sky : 
From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, 

mirth, 
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
And now, sole register that these things 

were. 
Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
' Good morrow^ Ciiize7t ' " a hollow word, 
As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 

IV. 

1801. 
I GRIEVED for Bonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinkLcg grief ! The tenderest 

mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? what 

food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could 

he gain ? 
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good, 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Tliougiits motherly, and meek as woman- 
hood. 
Wisilom doth live with children round her 

knees •■ 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly 

walk 
Of the mind's business ; these are the de- 
grees 
By which true Sway doth mount ; this is 

the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and b.er rights 
are these. 



CALAIS, AUGUST 15, l8o2. 

Festivals have I seen that were not 

names : 
This is young Bonajiarte's natal day, 
And his is henceforth an established sway — 
Consul for life. With worship France pro 

claims 
Her approbation, and with pomj^s and 

games. 
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 



14th July, 1790. 



Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
To the sea-coast, noting that each mai 

frames 
His business as he likes. Far other show 
My youth liere witnessed, in a prouder time ; 
The senselessness of Joy was then sublime I 
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 

VI. 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 

fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the 

worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those giories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength 

decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final 

day 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the 

Shade 
Of that which once was great is passed 

away. 

VII. 
THE KING OF SWEDEN. 

The Voice of song from distant lands shall 

call 
To that great King ; shall hail the crowned 

Youth 
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
By one example hath set forth to all 
How they with dignity may stand ; or fall. 
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it 

tend? 
And what to him and his shall be the end .■* 
That thought is one which neither can 

ajipal 
Nor cheer him ; for the illustrious S wede 

hath done 
The thing which ought to be ; is raised 

above 
^All con.sequences ; work he hath begun 
Of fortitude, and piety, and love. 
Which all his gloriiuis ancestors apjirove :) 
The heroes bless him, him their rightful 

son. 



POEAfS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



271 



VIII. 
TO TOUSSAINT l'OUVERTURE. 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of 

men ! 
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 

plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 

den ; — 
O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou Hnd patience? Yet die not; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left 

behind 
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, 

and skies ; 
There's not a breathing of the common 

wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great 

allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind, 

* IX. 

SEPTEMBER I, lSo2, 
Among the capricious acts of tyranny that dis- 
graced those times, was the chasing of ail 
Negroes from France by decree df the gov- 
ernment : we had a Fellow-passenger who 
was one of the expelled. 

We had a female Passenger who came 
From Calais wth us, spotless in array, — 
A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay. 
Yet downcast as a woman feanng blame; 
Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim 
She sate, from notice turning not away. 
But on all proffered .ntercoiirse cUd lay 
A weight of languid speech, or to the same 
No sign of answer made by word or face : 
Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire. 
That, burnmg independent of the mind. 
Joined with the lustre of her rich attire 
To mock the Outcast — O ye Heavens, Le 

kind ! 
And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted 

Race! 

X. 

COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, 

ON THE DAY OK LANDING. 

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once 

more. 
The cock that crowr, the smoke that c r's, 

that sound 



Of bells ; — those boys who in yon meadow- 
ground 
In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the 

roar 
Of the waves breaking on the chalky 

shore ; — 
All, all are English. Oft have I looked 

round 
With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never 

found 
Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass. 
Thought for another moment. Thou art 

free, 
My Country ! and 'tis joy enough and pride 
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the 

grass 
Of England once again, and hear and see, 
With such a dear Companion at my side. 



SEPTEMDER, iS02. NEAR DOVER. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
And saw, while sea was calm and air was 

clear. 
The coast of France — the coast of France 

how near ! 
Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. 
I shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
Was like a lake, or riv.r bright and fair, 
A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good I 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and 

waters roll. 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and 

Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One 

decree 
Spake laws to them^ and said that by tht 

soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great and free 



THOUGHT OF A ERITO.V ON THE SL'RJU 
GATION OF SWITZERLAND. 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains; each a miglitj 

Voice . 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'stagamst him ; but hast vainly 

striven ■ 
Then from thy Alpine holds at length Art 

driven, 



272 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATfON. 



Where not a torrent murnmrs heard by 

thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine car hath born 

bereft : 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is 

left; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would 

it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as 

before, 
And Ocean bellow f'oni his rocky shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 

XIII. 
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SKPTEMRER, lSo2. 

O Friend ! I know not which way 1 must 

look 
For comfort, bcini;, as I am, upi)rest, 
To think that now our life is only drcst 
For show ; mean handy work of craftsman, 

cook, 
Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a 

brook 
In the o[)en sunshine, or we are unblest : 
The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry ; and these we adore:" 
Plain livmg and higii tliinking are no more: 
The homely bcautv of tlie good old cause 
Is gone ! our peacf, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathmg household 

laws. 

XIV. 

LONDON, 1802. 

Milton ! thou should'st bo living at this 

hour ■. 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of liall and 

bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward haii])iness. We are sclfihh men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt a] -art : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like 

the sea ; 
Pure as the naked heavens, maj-'h>tic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness; and yet tliy heart 
The lowhest duties on hcrsell did lay. 



Great men have been among ns ; hands 

that penned 
y\nd tongues that uttered wisdom— better 

none : 
'i'he later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
Young Vane, and others who called Milton 

friend. 
The-e moralists could act and comprehend : 
Tiiey knew how genuine glory was just on; 
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
In s])lendor : what strength was that would 

not bend 
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 

'tis strange. 
Hath brought forth no such souls as we 

had then. 
Perpetual emptiness I unceasing change! 
No single volume paramount, no code, 
No master spirit, no determined road : 
But equally a want of books and men ! 



It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sm^ 
Of the woild's praise, from dark antuiuity 
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, un- 

withstood," 
Koused though it be full often to a mood 
Winch spurns the check of salutary bands, 
'ihat this most famous Stream in bogs and 

sanils 
Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 
Armory of the invincible Knights of old; 
We must be free or die, who speak the 

tongue 
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and 

morals hold 
Which Milton held. — In everything we are 

sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



When I have borne in memory what has 
tamed 

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts de- 
part 

When men change swords for ledgers, and 
desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears 
unnamed 

I had, my Cor.ntry! — am I to be blamed ? 

Now, when I tliink of thee, and what thou 
art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



273 



Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize tliec; we who 

find 
In thee a bulwark for tlie cause of men ; 
And 1 by my affection was bei^uiled : 
\VIiat wonder if a Poet now and then. 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child 1 

XVIII. 
OCTOBER, 1S03, 

One might believe that natural miseries 
Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
Unlit for men ; and that in owe great band 
Her sons were bursting fortii, to dwell at 

ease. 
But "tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
Slied gentle favors : rural works arc there, 
And ordinary business without care; 
JSpot rich in all thmgs that can soothe and 

jiloase ! 
How piteous then that there should be such 

dearth 
Of knowledge ; that whole myriads shoul 

unite 
To work against themselves such fell d. 

spite : 
Should come in plirensy and in drunken 

mirth, 
Impatient to put out the only light 
Of Liberty tliat yet remains on earth ! 



There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 

bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, 

and wall, 
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
'Tis his who walks about in the open air, 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must 

wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could 

be, 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
From self-reproach, reproach that he must 

share 
With Human nature ? Never be it ours 
To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
And know that noble feelings, manly 

powers, 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop 

and pine ; 
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and 

(lowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 



ocTOi;i-.K, 1S03. 

These times strike monied worldlings will-. 

dismay ; 
Y.\ql\\ ricli men, brave by nature, taint the 

air 
With words of api)rehension and despair : 
While tens of thou.sands, thinking on the 

affray. 
Men unto whom suft'.cicnt f( r the day 
And minds not stintetl ( r unfilled are 

given, 
Sound, healthy, children of the God of 

heaven. 
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
That every gift of noble origin 
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual 

breath ; 
That virtue and the faculties within 
Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and 

deatli .'' 



...N(^LANi)! the time is come when thou 

should'st wean 
Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
Tiie truth should now be better understood • 
Old things iiave been unsettled ; we have 

seen 
Fair seed-time, better harvest might iiave 

been 
But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
Aught good were destined, thou would'st 

step between. 
England 1 all nations in this charge agree: 
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate. 
Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
Therefore the wise pray for thee, tliough the 

freight 
Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all 

with Thee ! 

XXII. 

OCTOIiER, 1803. 

When, lOoking on the present 'ace of 

things, 
I 1 see one Man, of men the meanest too ! 
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo. 
With mighty Nations for his underlings. 
The great events with which old story hc0 



^74 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIV. 



Seen vain and hollow ; I find nothing great : 
Nothing is left which I can venerate ; 
So that a doubt almost witliin ine springs 
Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
Seems at the heart of all things. But, 

great God ! 
I measure back tlie steps which I have 

trod : 
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the 

strength 
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts 

sublime 
I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 

XXIII. 
ro THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER. 1S03. 

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 

Ve children of a Soil that doth advance 

Her haugiity brow agamst the coast of 
France, 

Mow is tlie time to prove your hardiment ! 

To France be words of invitation sent J 

They from their fields can see the counte- 
nance 

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering 
lance, 

And hear you shouting forth your brave in- 
tent. 

Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 

Did from tlie Norman win a gallant wieath ; 

Confirmed the charters that were yours be- 
fore ;— 

No parleying now ! In Drilain is one 
breath ; 

We all are with you now from shore to 
shore : — 

Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death ! 

XXIV. 

What if our numbers barely could defy 
The arithmetic of babes, must foreign 

iiordes, 
Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words, 
Striking through English breasts the anar- 
chy 
Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 
Our hands behind our backs with felon 

cords ? 
Yields everything to discipline of swords ? 
Is man as good as man, none low, none 

high ?— 
Nor discipline nor valor can withstand 
The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, 
When in some great extremity breaks out 
A people, on their own beloved Land 
Risen. like one man, to combat in the sight 
Of a just God for liberty and right. 



XXV. 

LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION. 

1803. 

Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert!) 

the Land 
Were witli herself at strife, would take your 

stand. 
Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's 

side, 
And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your 

pride — 
Come ye — who, not less zealous, might dis- 
play 
Ijanners at enmity with regal sway, 
And, like the Lyms and Miltons of that 

day. 
Think that a State would live in sounde» 

health 
If Kingship bowed its head to Common- 
wealth — 
Ye too — whom no discreditable fear 
Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless 

tear. 
Uncertain what to choose and how to steer— 
And ye — who might mistake for sober sense 
And wise reserve the plea of indolence — 
Come ye — whate'er your creed — O waken 

all, 
Whate'er your temper, at your Country's 

call ; 
Resolving (this a free-Lorn Nation can) 
To have one Soul, and perish to a man. 
Or save this honored Land from every Lord 
But British reason and the British sword. 

XXVI. 

ANTICIPATION. OCTOTER, 1S03. ^ 

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 

On British ground the Invaders are laid 

low ; 
The breath of Heaven has drifted tliem like 

snow, 
And left them lying in tiie silent sun. 
Never to rise again ! — the work is done. 
Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful 

show 
And greet your sons ! drums beat and trum 

pets blow ! 
Make merry, wives* ve little children, stun 
Your grandamc's ears wilii j>leasure of your 

noise ! 
Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine 

must be 
That triumph, when the very worst, tbo 

pain 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



275 



And even the prospect of our brethren 
hlain, 

Hath somethnig in it which the heart en- 
joys :— 

In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. 



NOVEMBER, 1806. 

Another year! — another deadly blow. 
Another m ghty Empire overtlirown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone; 
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall 

know 
That in ourselves our safety must be sought : 
Tliat by our own right har.ds it must be 

wrought ; 
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid 

low. 
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 

cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
l?e men who hold its many blessings dear, 
Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile "band. 
Who are to judge of danger which they 

fear 
And honor which tlicv do not understand. 



1. 

Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
And binds her temples with the civic 

wreath .? 
What joy to read the promise of her mien ! 
How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings 
bt ncath ! 

But they are ever playing, 
And twinkling m the light, 
And, if a breeze be straying, 
That breeze she will invite ; 
And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair. 
And calls a look of love into her face. 
And spreads her arms, as if the general air 
Alone could satii^fy her wide embrace. 
—Melt, Principalities, before her melt ! 
Her love ye hailed— her wrath have felt ! 
But She through many a change of form 

hath gone. 
And stands amidst you now an arm^d crea- 
ture, 
Whose panoply is not a thing put on. 
But the live scales oi a portentous nature ; 



That, having forced its way from birth to 

birth, 
Stalkb round — abhorred by Heaven a terror 

to the Earth ! 

II. 

I marked the breathings of her dragon 
crest ; 
My Soul, a sorrowful interpreter, 
In many a midnight vision bowed 
Bcfoie the ominous aspect of her spear ; 
Whether the mighty beam, in scorn upheld, 
Threatened her foes, — or, pompously at 

rest. 
Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
•As stretches a blue bar of soMd cloud 
Across the setting sun and all the fiery west. 

III. 

So did she daunt the Earth, and God 
defy ! 

And, whcresoe'er she spread her sover- 
eignty, 

Poll ut. on tainted all that was most pure. 

— Have we not known — and live we not to 

tell- 

That Justice seemed to hear her final knell.' 

Faitli buried deeper m her own deep breast 

Her stores, and sighed to find them insie- 
cure ! 

And Hope was maddened by the drops that 
fell 

From shades, her chosen place of short-lived 
rest. 

Shame followed shame, and woe supplanted 
woe — 

Is this the only change that time can show ? 

How long shall vengeance sleep? Ye pa- 
tient Heavens, h<Av long .'' 

— Infirm ejaculation ! from the tongue 
Of Nations wanting virtue to be strong 
Up to the measure of accorded might, 
And daring not to feel themajtsly of right 1 



Weak Spirits are there— who wcn.M isk« 
T^pon the pressure of a painful thing, 
'111.' hon's sinews, or the eagle's wir.g ; 
Or let their wishes loose, in forest glade. 
Among the lurking j owers 
Of herbs and lowly flowers. 
Or seek, from saints above, miraculous 

aid- 
Tliat Man may be accomplished for a task 
Which his own nature hath enjoined ;— and 
why? 



276 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOI^. 



1 



If, when that interference hath relieved him, 
He must sink duwn to languish 

In worse than former helplessness — and lie 
Till the caves roar, — and, imbecility 
Again engendering anguish, 

The same weak wish returns that had before 
deceived him. 



But Thou, supremo Disposer ! may'st not 

speed 
The course of things, and change the creed 
Which hath been held aloft before men's 

sight 
Since the first framing of societies, 
Whether, as bards have told in ancient 

song, 
Built up by soft seducing liarmoni 
Or prest together by. the appetite. 
And by the power, of wr 



TAI'lT II. 
I. 



ON A CELKBRATm FVF.NT IN ANCIENT 

iiisroKV. 

A Roman Master stands on Grecian 
ground. 

And to the people at the Isthmian Games 

Assembled, He, by a heiald's voice, pro- 
claims 

The Liherty of Greece :— the words re- 
bound 

Until all voices in one voice are drowned ; 

Glad acclamation by which air was rent ! 

And birds, high flying in the element, 

Dropped to the earth, astonished at the 
sound ! 

Yet were the thoughtful grieved ; and still 
that voice 

Haunts, with sad echoes, musing F"ancy's 
ear : 

Ah! that a Conqueror' s words should be so 
dear : 

Ah ! that a boon could shed such rapturous 
joys ! 

A gift of that which is not to be given 

By all the blended powers of Earth and 
Heaven. 



UPON the same EVENT. 

When, far and wide, swift as the beams of 

morn 
The tidings passed of servitude repealed, 



And of that joy v/hich shooK the Isthmian 

Field, 
The rough .^Etolians smiled with bitter 

scorn. 
" 'Tis known," cried they, "that he who 

would adorn 
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown 
Must either win, through effort of his own. 
The prize, or be content to see it worn 
By more deserving brows.— Yet so ye jjrop 
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, 
Your feeble spirits I Greece her head hath 

bowed, 
As if the wreath of liberty thereon 
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud 
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's 

top." 

III. 

TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL 
I'ASSING OF THE MIL FOR THE ABOLI- 
TION OF THE SLAVE TRADE. 

March, 1S07. 
Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to 

climb: 
How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by 

thee 
Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly * 
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent 

prime, 
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sub- 
lime. 
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge 

repeat. 
Which, out of thy young heart's oraculiir 

seat. 
First roused thee.— O true yoke-fellow of 

Time, 
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
Is won, and by all Nati(>ns shall be worn ! 
The blood-stained Writing is forever torn; 
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's 

calm, 
A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall 

' find 
Repose at length, firm friend of human 

kind ! 

IV. 

a prophecy, fetruary, 1807. 
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from 

you ! 
Thus in your books the record shall be 

found, 
" A watchword was pronounced, a poteni 

sound — 



POEMS OF THE nrAGlNATlOhr. 



277 



Arminius ! — all the people quaked like 

dew 
Stirred by the breeze ; they rose, a Nation, 

true, 
True to herself— the mi-hty Germany, 
She of the Danube and the Northern Sea, 
She rose, and off at once the yoke she 

threw. 
All power was given her in the dreadful 

trance : 
Those new-born Kings she withered like a 

rtaine."' 
-Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and 

shame 
To that Bavarian who cf)uld first advance 
His banner in accursed leai^ue witii FranC'", 
Fu'st open traitor to the German name ! 



COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE 
LAKE. 

1807. 

CiOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
Through the gray west; and lo ! these 

waters, steeled 
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
At happy distance from earth's groaning 

field, 
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant 

wars. 
Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
Opening to view the abyss in which she 

feeds 
Her own calm fires ? — But list ! a voice is 

near; 
Great Pan himself low-whispering through 

the reeds, 
" Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here! " 

VI. 

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
The gt-nuinc mien and character would 

trace 
Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place, 
Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! 
Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise ; 
The pyramid extend its monstrous base. 
For some Aspirant of our short-lived race. 
Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
Gave specious coloring to aim and act, 



See the first miglity tluntcr leave the 

brute — 
To chase mankind, with men in armies 

packed 
For his tield-pastime high and absolute. 
While, to dislodge his game, cities art 

sacked ! 

VII. 

COMPOSED WHILE THE /.UTHOR W/^S 
ENGAGED IN WRITING A IK ACT, UC 
CASIONED liV HIE CONVENTION OF 
CINTRA. 

S08. 
Not 'mid the World's vain objects that 

enslave 
The free-born Soul — that VVorld whose 

vaunted skill 
In selfish interest perverts the will, 
Whose factions lead astray the wise and 

brave — 
Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky 

cave. 
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fil! 
Willi omnipresent murmur as tht y rave 
Down their steep beds, that never shall be 

still; 
Here, mighty Nature ; in this schdr)l sub- 
lime 
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering 

Spain ; 
For her consult the auguries of time, 
And through the human heart explore my 

way ; 
And look and listen — gathering, whence I 

may, 
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can 

restrain. 

VIII. 

COMPOSED at the SAME TIME AND ON 
THE SAME OCCASU)N. 

1 DROPPED my jien ; and listened to the- 

Wind 
That sang of trees up-torn and vessels 

tost— 
A midnight harmony ; and wholly lost 
To the general sense of men by chains con 

fined 
Of business, care, or pleasure ; or resigned 
To timely sleep. Thuuglit I, the impas- 
sioned strain. 
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
Like acceptation from tiie World will find. 
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink 



278 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTMATION. 



A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows 
past ; 

And to the attendant promise will give 
heed — 

The prophecy, — like that of this wild blast, 

Which, while it makes the heart with sad- 
ness shrink, 

Tells also of bright calms that shall suc- 
ceed. 



IX. 



Of mortal parents is the Hero born 

By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 

Or is it Toll's great Spirit, from the dead 

Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 

ile comes like Phoebus through the gates 

of morn 
When dreary darkness is discomfited. 
Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is 

worn, 
O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
From van to rear — and with one mind 

would flee. 
But half their host is buried : — rock on rock 
Descends: — beneath this godlike Warrior, 

see ! 
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 
The Tyrant, and confound iiis cruelty. 



Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean 
ground, 

Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul un- 
tamed ; 

Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains 
named ! 

Through the long chain of Alps from mound 
to mound 

And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, 
bound ; 

Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 

Have roused her from her sleep : and forest- 
lawn, 

Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps 
resound 

And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread 
Power ! 

With such invisible motion speed thy 
flight 

Through hanging clouds, from craggy 
height to height. 

Through the green vales and through the 
herdsman's bower — 



That all the Alps may gladden in Ihj 

might. 
Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 



XI. 



FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 

The- Land we from our fathers had in 

trust. 
And to our children will transmit, or die ; 
This is our maxim, this our piety ; 
And God and Nature say that it is just. 
That wliich we would perform in arms — we 

must ! 
We read tlie dictate in the infant's eye ; 
In the wife's smile ] and in the placid sky; 
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the 

wind ! 
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd. 
With weapons grasped in fearless hands, to 

assert 
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 



Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
Of moral prudence, sought through good 

and ill ; 
Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will. 
And lead us on to that trandscendant rest 
Where every passion shall the sway attest 
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 
What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
If Sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty 

Schools 
Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow 

say, 
A few strong instincts and a few plain 

rules, 
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have 

wrought 
More for mankind at this unhappy day 
Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 



And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
There, and there only, that the heart is 

true ? 
And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
Ah no ! though Nature's diead protection 

fails, 



POEMS OF THE TMAGTNATrO]^. 



279 



There is a bulwark in the soul. Tliis knew 
Iberian Burghers when the sword they 

drew 
In Zarugoza, naked to the gales 
Of fieicely-breathing war. The truth was 

fait 
By i'alafox, and many a brave compeer, 
Like lum of noble birth and noble mind ; 
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear; 
And wanderers of the street, to whom is 

dealt 
The bread which without industry they 

fina. 

XIV. 

I O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 
plain, 
Dwells in the affections and the soul of 
man 
I A Godhead, like the universal Pan ; 
I But more exalted, willi a brigliter tram : 
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
5^!lowe^cd equally on city and on field, 
And neither hope nor steadfast promise 

yield 
In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it, 
Heaven! 
I We knov/ the arduous strife, th.c eternal 

laws 
I To which the triumph of all good is given, 
I Ilir;h sacrifice, and labor without pause. 
Even to the death : — else wherefore sliould 

the eye 
Of man converse with immortality ? 



XV. 



ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYR- 
OLESE. 

It was a moral end for which they fought ; 

Klse how, when mighty Thrones were put 
to shame. 

Could they, poor Shepherds, have pre- 
served an aim, 

A resolution, or enlivening thought? 

Nor hath that moral good been vabtly 
sought ; 

For in their magnanimity and fame 

Powers have they le;t, an impulse, and a 
claim 

Which neither can be overturned nor 
bought. 

Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills 
repose ! 

We know that ye, beneath the stern control 



Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished 

soul : 
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
Europe breaks forth : then, Shepherds ; 

shall ye rise 
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 



Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, 
Vet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
Such spectacle demands nut tear or sigh. 
These desolate remains are trophies high 
Of more than martial courage in llie breast 
Of peaceful civic virtue ; tiiey attest 
Thy matchless worth to all posterity 
Blood flowed before thy sight without re- 
morse ; 
Disease consumed thy vitals ; War up- 
heaved 
The ground beneath thee with volcanic 

forcj : 
Dread tr.als ! yet encountered and sus- 
tained 
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, 
And law was from necessity received. 



Say, what is Honor ?— 'Tis the finest sense 
Of justice which the luinian mind can 

frame. 
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim. 
And guard tlie way of life from all offence 
Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
Invades a Realm, so pressed that m Uie 

scale 
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, 
Honor is hopeful elevation, — whence 
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skil, 
Endangered States may yield to terms un 

just; 
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the 

dust— 
A Foe's most favored purpose to fulfill: 
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 

XVIII. 

The martial courage of a day is vain, 
An empty noise of death the b ittle's roar, 
If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, 
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a 

strain 
Of triumph, how the laboring Danube bore 
A weight of hostile corses; drenched witJp 

gore 



38o 



POE}rS OF THE nfAGLVATlOAr. 



Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped 

with slain. 
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast) 
Austria a Daughter ot her Throne hath sold ! 
Antl her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast. 
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold, 
To think that such assurance can standfast ! 



Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy 

flight 
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest 
With heroes, 'mid the Islands of the Blest, 
Or in tiie fields of empyrean light. 
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night ; 
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sub- 
lime, 
Stand in the spacious firmament of tmie. 
Fixed ;is a star: such glory is thy right. 
Alas I it may not be: for earthly fame 
Is Fortune's frail dependent ; yet there lives 
A Judge who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
'i'o whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
I'.ulhfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 

XX. 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee ; 
Who slighted fear ; rejected steadfastly 
Temptation ; and whose kingly name and 

state 
Have " j-ierished by his choice, and not his 

fate ! " 
Hence lives He, to his inner s.lf endeared ; 
And hence, wherever virtue is revered. 
He sits a more exalted Potentate, 
Tln-oned in the hearts of men. Should 

Heaven ordain 
That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to 

endure. 
Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause, 
Admonished l)y these truths, and Cjuench all 

pain 
In thankful joy and gratulation pure. 

XXI. 

Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
His vows to fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undis- 
mayed ; 
And so hath gained at length a prosi)erou-.> 
height, 



Round which the elements of worldly might 
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are 

laid. 
O joyless power that stands by lawless force 1 
Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and liale, 
Internal darkness and unquiet breatli ; 
And, if old judgments keep their sacred 

course. 
Him from that height shall Heaven precipi- 
tate 
By violent and ignominious death. 

xxn. 

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer. 
The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, 
Forced to descend into his destined tomb — 
A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the 

year. 
And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear; 
Wliat time his injured country is a stage 
Whereon deliLerate Valor and the rage 
Of righteous Vengeaiice side by side appear, 
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : — • 
Say can lie think of this with mind serene 
And silent fetters ? Yes, if visions bright 
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
When he himself was tried m open light. 

XXIIL 
iSio. 
An ! where is Palafox .? Nor tongue nor pen 
Reports of him, his dwellmir or his grave I 
I )oes yet the unheard-of vessel ride th.o wave? 
Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
Of jiitying human nature? Once a'jain 
Methinks that we shall hail thee. Champion 

brave, 
Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
And through all Europe cheer desponding 

men 
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the 

might 
Of martvrdom, and ioiiitiide, and right. 
Hark, how thy Country triumphs !--SmiI. 

ingly 
The h'ternal looks upon her sword thai 

gleams, 
r.ike his own lightning, over mountains higli, 
On rampart, and the banks of all her sti earns 

XXIV. 

In due observance of an ancient lite, 

'I'he rude Biscayans, when their children li« 

Dead in the sinless time of infancy. 

Attire the peaceful cori^e in vestments wliitcf 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TIOJV 



2S1 



And, in like si^n of cloudless triumph bright, 
They bind the unoffending creature's brows 
With happy garlands of the pure white rose : 
Then do a festal company unite 
In choral song ; and, while the uplifted cross 
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 
Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed, her loss 
The Mother then mourns, as she needs must 

mourn ; 
Rut soon, through Christian faith, is grief 

subdued ; 
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude 



FEELINGS OF A NORLE BISCAYAN AT ONE 
OF THOSE FUNERALS. 

iSlO. 

1 Vet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our 

I Foes 

' With firmer soul, yet labor to regain 

Our ancient freedom ; else 'twere worse than 
vain 

To gather round the bier these festal sh.ows. 

A garland fashioned of the pure wliite luse 

Becomes not one whose father is a slave : 

Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave ! 

These venerable mountains now enclose 
' A people sunk in apathy and fear. 

If this endure, farewell, for us, all good ! 
I The awful light of heavenly innocence 

Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier ; 

And guilt and shame, trom which is no de- 
fence, 

Descend on all that issues from our blood. 

XXVI. 

THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 

The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in 
lus account of Biscay, is a most vencrnble 
natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, 
in the year 1746, after hearing mass \\\ the 
church ot Santa Maria de la Antigua, rei)aired 
to this tree, under which they swore to tlie 
Biscayans to maintain their /tteros (privi- 
leges.) What other interest belongs to it in 
the minds of this people will appear trom 
the ioJlowing 

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 1810. 

I Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
I Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine 
Heard from the depths of its aerial bower— 
riow canst thou flourish at this blighting 
hoiir? 



What hope, what joy can sunshine bring t« 

thee, 
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea. 
The dews of morn, or April's tender showci 
Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
Which should extend thy branches on the 

ground, 
If never more within their shady round 
Those lofty minded Lawgivers shall meet, 
Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat. 
Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty, 

XXVII. 

INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED 

SPANIARD. 

1810. 

We can endure that He should waste our 

lands. 
Despoil our temples, and by sword and 

dame 
Return us to the dust from which we came, 
Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands; 
And we can brook the thought that by his 

hands 
Spain may be ovcr]X)wered, and he possess, 
For his delight, a solemn wilderness 
Where all the brave he dead. But, when of 

bands 
Which he will break for us he dares to speak, 
Of bcnchts, and ot a future day 
When our enlightened minds shall bless his 

sway ; 
T/ie)i, the strained heart of fortitude proves 

weak ; 
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks de- 
clare 
That he has power to inflict what we lack 

strength to bear. 

xxvm 
AvAUNT all specious pliancy of my*\^ 
In men of low degree, all smooth p.'*^cncc J 
1 better like a blunt indifference. 
And self-respecting slowness, disincli '^d 
To win me at first sight ; and bG there 

joined 
Patience and temperance with this •igi> 

reserve. 
Honor that knows the path and wil' not 

swerve ; 
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind 
i And piety towards God. Such men of old 
Were England's native growth ; and 

throughout .'^pain, 
(Thanks to high God) forests of such rf 

main "• 



282 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
Fur matched with tliese bliall j^ulicy prove 

vain, 
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her 

gold. 



iSio. 

O'ervvI'ENINg Statesmen have full long 

lelicd 
On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
But horn within proceeds a Nation's health ; 
VVIiicii shall not lail, though poor men cleave 

with pride 
To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 
In the thronged city, from the walks of gam, 
As being all unworthy to detain 
A Soul by contem|ilation sanctified. 
There are whot.uinot languish in this strife, 
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
( )l such high course was felt and understood •, 
Who to their Country's cause have bound a 

hie 
Ercwhile, by solemn consecration, given 
To labor, and to prayer, to nature, and to 

heavL-n. 



THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH 
GUERILLAS. 

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping 

blast 
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by 

night 
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad 

height— 
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers 

past, 
The roving Spanish Bands are leached at 

last. 
Charged and dispersed like foam . but as a 

flight 
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite. 
So these, — and, heard of once again, are 

chased 
Of combinations of long-practised art 
And newly-kindled hope , but they are fled — 
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead: 
Where now ? — Their sword is at the Foe- 
man's heart ! 
And thus from year to year his walk they 

thwart. 
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 



SrANLSH GUERIH.A. 

iSn. 

TiiEV seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 
Shrink not, though far outnumbeied by theil 

Foes, 
For they have learnt to open and to close 
The ridges ot gnm war ; and at their head 
Are captains such as erst their country bred 
Or tostered, sell-supported chiels,— like those 
Whom hardy Rome was tearful lo opposi ; 
Whose cicsijcr^itc shock the Carthaginian 

fled. 
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life 
Redoubted Virialus breathes again; 
And Mina, ncMirihlu'd in the studious shado, 
With that great Leader * vies, who, sick of 

strife 
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
In some green island ol the western main. 

XXXII. 

iSi I. 

The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
Formal, and circumscribed in time and 

space ; 
But who the limits of that power shall trace 
Which a brave Peopl- into light can bring 
Or hide, at will,— for Ircedom combating 
By just revenge inflamed .'' No loot may 

chase, 
No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the 

wind 
Within its awful caves— From year to year 
Springs this indigenous produce far and near 
No cratt this subtle element can bind, 
Rising like water trom the soil, to find 
In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 

XXXIII. 

iSii. 
Here pause : the poet claims at least this 

praise, 
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
Of his pure song, which did not shrink fron? 

hope 
In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
From hope, the paramount ditty that 

Heaven lays. 
For its own honor, on man's suffering heart. 
Never may from our souls one truth depart— 



' Sertorius. 



POEMS OF T/.'K lAfAC/NAT/Ol/. 



283 



Tli.it an accursed tliincj it is lo gaze 

C)n prosperoMs tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 

Nor — touciicd witli due abhonencc of (/tar 

gmit 
For whose dire ends tcr.rs How, and blood is 

spilt, 
And justice labors In exticinity — 
Forget thy weakness, v\\w\\ which is built, 
1) wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 



THE I'RENCil AKiM\ l.N KUSblA 
1S12-13. 

Hi'MANlTV, delighting to beliold 
A iiind reflection of her own decay, 
>!alli painted Winter like a traveller old, 
I'lopped on a staff, and, through the sullen 

: day, 

I In hooded mantle, limping o'er the ])Iain, 
As though his weakness were disluibed by 

pain •, 
Or, if a jiister fancy should allow 
An unchsputcd symbol of ccjmmand, 
Tiie chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 

I Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand 

These eml3lem5 suit the helpless and lorlorn , 

1 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 

I For lie it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
i Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, 
I That host, when from the regions of the Pole 
I They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal — 
I That iiost, as huge and strong as e'er defied 
1 Their God, and placed tiieir trust in human 
j pride ! 

j As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 

He smote the blossoms of their warrior 
I youth ; 

I He called on Fiost's inexorable tooth 
' Life to consume in Maniiood's hrmest hold ; 
' Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly 
1 runs ; 

For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
And sacred liome — ah 1 why should hoary 
Age be bold ? 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
Which from Siberian caves the Monarch 

freed, 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his 

kind, 
And bade the Snow their ample backs 
bestride. 

And to the b?ttie ride. 



No pityingvoice commands a halt, 
No courage can re|)el tlie dire assr.ult , 
Histractcd, spiritless, benumbed, an.J blind, 
Whole legi(;ns sink — and, i.i one instant, 

tind 
Burial and death : look for them — and 

descry, 
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue 

sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy I 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Vu Sloims, resound the praises of your 

King I 
,\nd ye mild Seasons — in a sunny rlimn, 
Midwav on some high hilt, while fatlier Time 
Looks on deligl:ted — meet in festai ring, 
And loud and long of Winter's triumiih sing! 
Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits 

and flowers, 
Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety 

showers. 
And the due flapiiing of his hoary wing ! 
Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green 

grass ; 
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report 

your gain ; 
Whisper it to the bdlows of the main, 
And to the aerial zeiiiiyrs as they pass, 
'J'hat old decrepit Winter — He hatli slain 
That Host, which rendered all your bounties 

vain \ 

XXXVI. 

Rv Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 

Of dreadful sacrifice ; bv Russian blood 

Lavished in hght with desperate hardihood; 

The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 

To rob our Human-nature of just praise 

For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure 

Of a deliverance absolute and pure 

She gave, if faith might tread the beaten 

ways 
Of Providence. But now did the Most Hi^h 
Exalt Ivis still small voice ;— to quell that 

Host 
Gathered his power, a manifest ally ; 
He, whose heaped waves confounded the 

proud boast 
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, an</ 

Frost, 
" Finish the strife by deadliest v\ctory 1 " 



284 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



XXXVII. 

THE GERMANS ON THE liEIGHTS OF 
HOCK HEIM. 

Abruptly paused the strife; — the field 

throuj^hoiit 
Restiri'j: upon his arms each warrior stood, 
Checked in clie very act and deed of blood, 
Witli breatii suspended, like a listening scout. 
O Silence ! thou vvert motiier of a shout 
That throu2;li the texture of yon azure dome 
Cleaves its £;lad way, a cry of harvest home 
Uttered to Heaven in ecstacy devout! 
The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through 

battle-smoke, 
On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view, 
As if all Germany had tclt tlie shock I 
— Fly, wretched Gauls ! ere they the charge 

renew 
Who have seen — themselves now casting off 

the yoke — 
The unconouerable Stream his course pursue. 



NOVEMBER, 1813. 

Now that ?11 hearts are glad, all faces bright. 
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow 
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe. 
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight. 
And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
Whom no weak hopes deceived : whose 

mind ensued, 
Tin-ough perilous war, with regal fortitude. 
Peace that sh.ould claim respect from the 

lawless Might. 
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine 
To his forlorn crndition ! let thy grace 
Upon his inner soul in mercy shine ; 
I'crmit his heart to kindle, and to embrace 
I Though it were only for a moment's space) 
The triumphs of this hour ; for they are 

Thine ! 



ODE. 

1814. 

— Carmina possumus 

Donare, ct prctium dicere muneri, 
Non incisa notis marmora publicis. 
Per quae spiritus et vita redit bonis 
Post mortem ducibus 

clarius indicant 

Laudes, qiiani Pierides ; neque. 

Si cliart;e sileant quod bene f-ceris, 
M-rcedem tuleris.— HoR. Car, S Lib. 4. 



When the soft hand of sleep had closed the 

latch 
On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
And P'ancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
Was free her choicest favors to dispense : 
I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
k landscape more august than happiest skill 
Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
An intermingled pomp of vale and liill, 
City, and naval stream, suburban grove. 
And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; 
Xor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, 
And scatterefl rural farms of aspect bright ; 
And, here and there, between the pastoral 

downs. 
The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
But not a living creature could be seen 
Through its wide circuit, that in deep repose, 
And, even to sadness, lonely and serene. 
Lay hushed ; till— through a portal in the sky 
Brighter than brightest loop-hole, in a storm, 
Opening before the sun's triumphant eye — 
Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
Earthward it glided with a swift descent : 
Saint George himself this Visitant must l)e ; 
And, ere a tliought could ask on what intent 
He sought the regions of humanity, 
A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
City and field and flood ;— aloud it cried — 

" Though from my celestial home, 

Like a Champion, armed I come; 

On my hehn the dragon crest, 

And the red cross on my breast ; 

I, the Guardian of this Land, 

Speak not now of toilsome duty ; 

\Vell obeyed was that command — 

Whence bright days of festive beauty ; 
Haste, Virgins, haste !— the flowers which 
summer gave 

Have perished in the field : 
But the green thickets plenteously shall yield 

Fit garlands for the brave, 
That w'll be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
Haste, Virgins, haste; and you, ye Matrons 

grave, 
Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind. 

And gather what ye find 
Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs — 
To deck your stern Defenders' modest 
brows ! 

Sucli simple gifts prepare, 
Tliough they have gained a worthier meedj 

And in due time shall share 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTA'ATIOfr. 



^iSj 



Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
In realms where everlasting freshness 
breathes ! " 



And lo ! with crimson banners proudly 
streaming, 
And upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
Along the surface of a spacious plain 
Advance in order the redoubted Bands, 
And there receive green chaplets from the 
hands 
Of a fair female train — 
Maids and Matrons, dight 
In robes of dazzling white : 
While from the crowd bursts forth a rap- 
turous noise 
Hy the cloud-capt hills retorted ; 
And a tb.rong of rosy boys 
In loose fashion tell their joys ; 
And gray-haired sires, on staffs supported, 
Look round, and by their smiling seem to 

say. 
Thus strives a grateful Country to display 
Tlie mighty debt wiiich nothing can repay ! 
111. 
Anon before my sight a ])alace rose 
Built of all precious substances, — so jiiire 
And cxcjuisite, that sleep alone bestows 
Ability like splendor to endure : 
Entered, with streaming thousands, through 

the gate, 
I saw the banquet spread beneath a Dome 

of state, 
A lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
Tiie heaven of sable niglit 
Witli starry lustre ; yet had power to throw 
Solemn effulgence, clear as solar ligiit, 
Upon a princely company below. 
While the vault rang witli choral harmony. 
Like some nymph-haunted grot beneath the 

roaring sea. 
— Nor sooner ceased that pea!, than on the 

verge 
Of exaltation hung a dirge 
Breathed from a soft and lonely instrument. 
That kindled recollections 
Of agonized affections ; 
And, (hough some tears the strain attended, 

Tiie mournful passion ended 
In pence of spirit, and sublim ■ content ! 
IV. 

But garlands witlier : festal shows depart, 
Like dreams themselves ; and sweetest 
sound — • 



(Albeit of effect profound) 

It was — and it is gone ! 
Victorious England ! bid the silent Art 
Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade, 
Those high achievements, even as she 

arrayed 
With second life the deed of Marathon 

Upon Athenian walls i 
So may she labor for thy civic halls . 

And be the guardian spaces 

Of consecrated places 
As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil ; 
And let imperishable Columns rise 
Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil; 
Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
And competent to shed a spark divine 
Into the torpid breast of daily life ; — 
Records on which, for pleasure of all eyes, 

Tlie morning sun may shine 
With gratulation thoroughly benign I 



.^nd ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jo vd 
And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred 
From your fust mansions, exiled all too 

long 
From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
Chanting for patriot" heroes tlie reward 

Of never-dying song ! 
Now (for, thougli Truth descending from 

above 
The Olympian sunmiit hath destroyed for 

aye 
Your kindred Deities, Yc live and mf>ve. 
Spared for ojjeisance trom perpetual love, 
i<'or privilege redeemed of Codlikc sway) 
Now, on the margin ol some spotless foun- 
tain, 
Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, 
And for a moment meet the soul's desires ! 
That I, or some more favoretl Bard, may 

hear 
What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
C)f Britain's acts, — may catch it vvitii rap' 

ear 
And give the treasure to our British tongue 
So shall the ciiaracters of that proud page 
Support their mighty theme from age to 

age ; 
And, in the desert places of the earth, 
Wlien they to future empires have given 

birth, 
So shall the people g;ithe'- and believe 
The bold report, transfer? ed to every chme^ 



286 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And the whole world, not envious but ad- 
mirine;, 
And to the like aspirins;, 
Own— that the progeny of this fair Isle 
Had power as lofty actions to achieve 
As were performed in man's heroic prime ; 
Nor wanted, when their fortitude liad held 
Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, 
A corresponding virtue to beguile 
The hostile purpose of wide-wasting Time — 
That not in vain they labored to secure, 
For their great deeds perpetual memory. 
And fame as largely spread as land and sea, 
By Works of spirit high and passion pure ! 



XL. 



FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYALIST, 

ON THE DISINTERMENT OF THE RE- 
MAINS OF THE DUKE d'ENGHIEN, 

Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould 
Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings; 
And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
On the remorseless hearts of men grown old 
In a blind worship ; men perversely bold 
Even to this hour, — yet, some shall now 

forsake 
Their monstrous Idol if the dead e'er spake, 
To warn the living ; if truth were ever told 
By aught redeemed out of the hollow grave : 
O murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, 

brave ! 
The power of retribution once was given : 
But 'tis a rueful thought tliat willow bands 
So often tie the thunder- wielding hands 
Of Justice sent to earth from highest 

Heaven ! 

XLl. 

OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF 

WATERLOO. 

The last six lines intended for an Inscrip- 
tion.) 

FEBRUARY 1816. 

Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
Is life despised ; all no, tlie spacious earth 
Ni,"'cr saw a race who held, by right of birth., 
So many (objects to which love is due: 
Ye siiglit not life — to God and Nature true ; 
But deatli, becoming death, is dearer far, 
When duty bids you bleed in open war; 



Hence hath your prowess quelled that im 

pious crew. 
Heroes ! — for instant sacrifice prepared ; 
Yet filled with ardor and on triumph bent 
'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident — 
To you who fell, and you whom slangliter 

spared 
To guard the fallen, and consummate tha 

event. 
Your country rears this sacred Monument ! 



siege OF VIENNA RAISED BY JOHN 
SOBIESKI. 



FEBRUARY, 



1816. 



O, FOR a kindling touch from that pure 

flame ^ 

Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice 
Of gratitude, beneath Italian skies. 
In words like these, " Up, Voice of song ! 

proclaim 
Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim : 
For lo ! the Imperial City stands released 
From bondage threatened by tiie embattled 

East, 
And Christi-ndom respires ; from guilt and 

shame 
Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
liy one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
— Chant the Deliverer's praise in every 

tongue! 
The cross shall spread, the crescent hath 

Vvfaxed dim ; 
He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is sung, 
He ( onqueuing through God, and 

God by iiim.'** 



occasioned by the battle of 
waterloo. 

FEBRUARY, l8i5. 

The Rard— whose soul is meek as dawning 

day. 
Yet trained to judgments righteously sei ere, 
Fervid, yet conversant v/ith holy fear, 
As recognizing one Almighty sway : 
He — whose experie<iced eye can pierce the 

array \ 

Of past events ; to whom, in vision clear, 
Tlie aspiring heads of future things appear, 
Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled 

away — 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



287 



Assoiled fromall encumbrance or our time,* 
He only, if such breathe, m strains devout 
Sliall compreiiend tliis victory subHme ; 
Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout. 
The triumph hail, which from their peaceful 

clime 
Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 

XLIV. 

Emperors and Kings, how oft have tem- 
ples rung 
With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's 

scorn ! 
How oft above their altars have been hung 
Trophies that led the good and wise to 

mourn 
Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, 

Peace is sprung ; 
In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn 
Glory to arms ! But, conscious that the 

nerve 
Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed 
Your thrones, ye Powers, from duty fear to 

swerve ! 
Be just, be grateful ; nor, the oppressor's 

creed 
•iteviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 



xi.v. 
ODE. 



iMAGiNATiON— ne'er before content, 
IJul aye ascending, restless in her pride 
[•"rom ail tiiat martial feats could yield 
To her desires, or to her hopes present — 
Stooped to the victory, on that Bclgic field, 
Achieved this closing deed magnificent. 
And with tlie embrace was satisfied. 
— Fly, ministt rs of fame. 
With every help that ye from eartli and 

Ii"^aven may claim ! 
Bear through the world these tidings of de- 
light I 
—Hours, Days, and Months, have borne 

them in the sight ^ 

Of mortals, hurryin'^ like a sudden shower 
That land-ward stretches from tiie sea. 



• ** From all this world's encumhrnii^o did 
himself assoil." Spenser. 



The morning's splendors to devour ; 
But this swift travel scorns the company 
Ol irksome change, or threats from ^adden• 

ing power. 
— The shock is given — the Adversartet 

bleed — 
Lo^ Jtistueiriiiinphs! Earth t$ freed' 
Joyful annunciation !— it went forth — 
It pierced the caverns of the sluggi>»l\ 

North- 
It found no barrier on the ridge 
Of Andes — frozen gulphs became its 

bridge — 
The vast Pacific gladdens with the 

freight— 
Upon the Lakes of Abia 'tis bestowed — 
The Arabian desert shapes a willing road 

Across her burning breast, 
For this refreshing incense from the 

West !— 
— Where snakes and lions breed, 
Where towns and cities thick as stars ap- 
pear. 
Wherever fruits are gathered, and 

where'er 
The upturned soil receives the hopefid 

seed — 
While the Sun rules, and cross the shades of 

niglit — 
The unwearied arrow hath pursued its 

flight ! 
The eyes of good men thankfully give heed 

And in Us sparkling progress read 
Of virtue crowned with glory's deathless 

meed ; 
Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, 
And slaves are j^leased to learn that mighty 

feats are done ; 
Ever, the proud Realm, from whose dis- 
tracted borders 
This messenger of good was launched in air, 
France, humbled France, amid iicr wild dis- 
orders, 
Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare, 
That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. 
And utter Rnuland's name with sadly- 
plausive voice. 

II. 

O genuine glorv, pure renown ! 

And well might it beseem that mighty Town 

Into whose bosom earth's best treasure:> 

flow, 
To whom a11 persecuted men retreat; 
If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
High on the shore of silver Thames— to 

greet 



288 



POEMS OF THE TMAGTI^ATIO]^. 



The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 

Bright be the Fabric, as a star 

Fresh risen, and beautiful within ?— there 

meet 
Dependence infinite, proportion just; 
A Pile that Grace approves, and Tune can 

trust 
With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 

III. 
But if the valiant of this h 
In reverential modesty demand, 
Tiiat all observance, due to ihem, be paid 
Where their serene progenitors are laid : 
Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint- 
like sages, 
England's illustrious sons of long, long 

ages ; 
Be it not unordained that solemn rites. 
Within tlie circuit of those Gothic walls, 
Shall be performed at pregnant intervals ; 
Commemoration holy tliat unites 
The living generations with the dead*; 
By the deep soul-moving sense 
Of religious eloquence, — 
By visual pomp, and by the tie 
Of sweet and threatening harmony 
Soft notes, awful as the omen 
Of destructive tempests coming, 
And escaping Irom that sadness 
Into elevated gladness ; 
While the white-robed choir attendant, 
Under mouldering banners pendent, 
Provoke all potenc symjilionies to rai.-.e 

Songs of victory and praise, 
For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled 
With medicable wounds, or found then- 
graves 
Upon the battle-field, or under ocean's 

waves ; 
Or were conducted home in single state, 
And long procession — there to lie. 
Where their sons, and all posterity. 
Unheard by them, their deeds shall cele- 
brate ! 

IV. 

Nor will the God of peace and love 

Such martial service disapprove. 

He guides the Pestilence—the cloud 

Of locusts travels on his breath ; 

The region thatin hope was ploughed 
His drought consumes, his mildew taints 

with death ; 

He springs the hushed Volcano's mine 
He puts the Earthquake on hfr still design. 
Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, 



And, drinking towns and cities, still can 

drink 
Cities and towns — 'tis Thou — the work is 

Thine !— 
The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy 
courts- 
He hears the word — he flies— 
And navies perish in their ports , 
For Thou art angry w'ltli thine enemies I 
For these, and mourning for our errors. 
And sins, that point their terrors, 
We bow our heads before Thee, and we 

laud 
And magnify thy name, Almighty God! 
But man is thy most awtiil instrument, 
In working out a pure intent; 
Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling 

mail, 
And for thy righteous purpose they pre- 
vail ; 
Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
Of them who in thy laws delight 
Thy presence turn, the scale ot doubtful 

fight. 
Tremendous God ol Ijiittles, Lord of Hosts \ 

V. 

Forbear ; — to Tiiec— 
Father and Judge ot all, with fervent 

tongue 
But in a gentler strain 
Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, 
(Too quick and keen; incited to disdain 
Of pity pleading troni the heart in vain — 

To Thee— To Thee 
Just God of christianized Humanity 
Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks 

, ascend. 
That thou hast brought our warfare to an 

end. 
And that we need no second victory ! 
Blest, above measure blest. 
If on thy love our Land her hopes shall 

rest. 
And all the Nations labor to fulfil 
Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, in 

pure good will. 



XLVI. 

ODE. 

THE MORNING OK THE DAY APPOINTED 
FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. JAN- 
UARY 18, 1816. 

I. 

HAiL,^orient Conqueror of gloomy Night ! 

Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 



POEMS OF tup: imagination. 



28) 



On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; 
Whether thy punctual visitations smite 
The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; 
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence 

bright 
Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's 

cell! 
Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
In naked splendor, clear from mist or haze, 
Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 
Which even in deepest winter testify 

Thy power and majesty, 
Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 

— Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 

Submitted to the chains 
That bind thee to the path which God 
ordains 

That thou shalt trace, 
Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass 

away ! 
Noi less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 
Then utter stillness, and the silent grace 
Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
(Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 

Report of storms gone by 

To us who tread below; 
Do with the service of this Day accord. 

— Divinest Object whicli the upliitcd eye 
0( moj-tal man is suffered to behold : 
Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights 

has poured 
Meek lustre, nor torget'st the iiumble Vale , 
Thou who dost warm Earth's universal 

mould, 
And for thy bounty were not unadored 

By pions men of old ; 
Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee 

hail- 
Bright be thy course to-day, let not this 

promise tail 1 



'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, 
All nature seems to hear me while I speak, 
By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
That stream in blithe succession from the 
throats 

Of birdfe, in leafy bower, 
Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower 
— There is a radiant though h short-lived 

flame, 
That burns for Poets in the dawning east ; 
And oft my soul iiatli kindled at the SA.ne, 
When the captivity of sleep had ceased ; 

19 



But He who fixed immovably the frame 
Of the round world, and built, by laws ai 
strong, 
A solid refuge for distress — 
The towers of righteousness ; 
He knows that from a holier altar came 
The quickening spark of this day's sacri- 
fice ; 
Knows that the source is nobler whence 
doth rise 
The current of this matin song ; 
That deeper far it lies 
Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 



Have we not conquered ? — by the venge 
f ul sword .'' 
Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; 
That curbed the baser passions, and \c^^ 

free 
A loyal band to follow their liege Lord 
Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Com-. 

• peers. 
Along a track of most unnatural years ; 
In execution of heroic deeds 
Whose memory, spotless as the crystal 

beads 
Of morning dew upon the untrodden 

meads, 
Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
He, who in conceit with an earthly string 
Of Britain's acts would sing. 
He with enraptured voice will tell 
Of One whose spirit no reverse could quel! ; 
Of One that mid the failing never failed— 
Who paints how Britain struggled and pre- 
vailed; 
Shall represent her lahormg with an eye 

Of circumspect humanity , 
Shall show her clothed with strength and 
skill, 
i All martial duties to fulfil ; 
Firm as a rouk m stationary fight ; 
In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
Fierce as a flood-gritc bursting at midnight 
To rouse the wicked from their gidd}! 

dream — 
Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 

IV. 

And thus is missed \\\Kt sole true glory 
That can belong to human story ! 
At which they only shall arrive 
Who through the abyss of weaknes« 
dive 



290 



rOEMS OF THE TMAGIN^iTION 



Tlic veryhumTiilcst are too proud of heart; 
And one brief day is rightly set apart 
For Him wlio hfteth up and layctli low; 
For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 
Say not that we have vanquished— but that 
we survive. 

V. 
How dreadful the dominion of the im- 
pure ! 
Wliy should the Song l^e tardy to proclaim 
That less than power unboimded could not 

tame 
That soul of Evil— which, from hell let 

loose, 
Had filled the astonished world with such 

abuse 
As boundless patience only could endure ? 
—Wide-wasted regions — cities wraj^t m 

flame — 
Who sees, may lift a streaming eye 
To Heaven ; — whc never saw, may heave a 

sigh ; 
But the foundation of our natures shakes. 
And with an infinite pain the spirit aciies. 
When desolated countries, towns on fire, 

Are but the avowed attire 
Of warfare waged with desperate mind 
i^gainst the life of virtue in mankind ; 
Assaulting without ruth 
The citadels of truth ; 
^{Vhile the fair gardens of civility, 
By ignorance defaced, 
By violence laid waste, 
■^'erish without reprieve for flower or tree ! 



A crouching purpose — a distracted will — 
Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn. 
And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 
Not all the light of earthly power could fill ; 
Opposed to dark, deep ) lots of patient skill, 
And to celerities of lawless force ; 
Which, spurning God, had flung away re- 
morse — 
What could they gain but shadows of 

redress ? 
— So bad proceeded propagating worse ; 
And discipline was passion's dire excess. 
Widens the fatal web, its lines extend, 
And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. 
When will your trials teach you to be wise ? 
— O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies ! 



No more — the guilt is banish'd, 
And with the guilt, the shame is f^ed ; 



And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe 

hath vanisli'd. 
Shaking the dust and ashes from her head! 
— No more— these lingcrings of distress 
Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
What robe can Gratitude employ 
So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy? 
What steps so suitable as those that move 
In prompt obedience to spontaneous meas 

ures 
Of glory, and felicity, and love. 
Surrendering the whole heart to sacred 

pleasures .'' 

VIII. 

O Britain ! dearer far than life is dear, 

If one there be 

Of all thy progeny 
Who can forget thy prowess, never more 
Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents roar. 
As springs the lion from his den, 

A 5 from a forest-brake 

Upstarts a glistening snake, 
The bold Arch-despot re-appeared: — agairx 
Wild Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, 

With all her armed Powers, 

On that offensive soil, like waves upon a 
thousand shores. 
The trumpet blew a universal blast! 
But Thou art foremost in the field • — there 

stand : 
Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! 
All States have glorified themselves ;— their 

claims 
Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; 
And now, in preference to the mightiest 

names. 
To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! 
Exalted office, worthily sustained ! 



Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts 

The memory of thy favor, 

That else insensibly departs. 

And loses its sweet savor ! 
Lodge it within us ! — as the power of light 
Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems. 
Fixed on the front of Eastern cadems. 
So shine our thankfulness forever bright ! 
What offering, what transcendent mon.. 

ment 
Shall our sincerity to Thee present ? 
— Not work of hands ; but trophies that 
may reach 



POEMS OF THE I MAG IN A TION, 



z^i 



To highest Heaven, tlie labor of the Soul ; 
That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach. 
Upon the internal conquests made by each, 
Her liope of lasting glory for the whole. 
Vet will not heaven disown nor earth gainsay 
The outward service of tiiis day ; 
Whether tiie worshippers entreat 
Forgiveness from God's mercy seat; 
Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend 
That He has brought our warfare to an end, 

And that we need no second victory! 

Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to see ; 
And to the heavenly saints in peace who 
dwell, 
For a brief moment, terrible ; 
But, to tliy sovereign penetration, fair, 
Before whom all tiiini^s are that were. 
All judgments that have been, or e'er shall 

be, 
Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 
Along the bosom of this favored ICation, 
Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation ! 
I-et all who do this land inherit 
Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! 
Oh ! 'tis a goodly Ordinance, — tlie sight, 
Though sprung from bleeding war, is one 

of ]-n-ic delight ; 
Bless Thou the hour, or e'er the hour arrive, 
When a whole people shall kneel down in 

prayer, 
And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive 
With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 

For thy protecting care, 
Their solemn joy— praising the Eternal 
Lord 
For Tyianny subdued, 
And for the sway cf equity renewed, 
For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 



kiut hark — the summons !- -down the 
placid lake 
Floats the soft cadence of the ciuirch-tower 
bells : 



Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams 

would wake 
The tender insects sleeping in their cells ; 
Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze to 

shake 
The drops that tip the melting icicles. 

O, enter ttow his temple gate / 
Inviting words — perchance already flimg 
(As the crowd jjress devoutly down th* 

aisle 
Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
From voices into zealous pa^sion stung. 
While the tubed engine feels the inspninr, 

blast. 
And has begun — its clouds of sound to cast 
Forth towards empyreal Heaven, 
As it the fretted roof were riven. 
f/5, humbler ceremonies now await ; 
But in the bosom, with devout respect 
The banner of our joy we will erect. 
And strength of love our soul shall elevate ; 
For to a few collected in his name, 
'J'hcir heavenly Fatlicr will incline an ear 
Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
Awake ! tlie majesty of God revere ! 

Go— and with foreheads meekly bowed 
Present your prayers— go— and rejoice 
aloud — 

The Holy One will hear! 
And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith 

sincere, 
Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
Shall simply feel and purely meditate — 
Of warnings — from the unprecedented nnght, 
Which, in our time, the impious have dis- 
closed ; 
And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
Upon the future advocates of right ; 
Of mysteries revealed, 
And judgments unrepealed, 
Of earthly revolution, 
And final retribution,— 
To his omniscience will appear 
An offering not unworthy to find place, 
On this high Day of Thanks, before tho 
Throne of Grace I 



292 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIV. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



1820. 



DEDICATION. 
(sent with these poems, in MS., to- 



Dear Fellow travellers! think not that the 

Muse, 
To You presentine; these memorial Lays, 
Can hope the [general eye tliereon would gazo, 
As on a mirror tliat gives back the hues 
Of living Nature ; no — though free to choose 
'J'he greenest lx)\vers, the most inviting ways, 
The fairest landscapes and the brightest 

days — 
Rydal Mount, Nov.. 1821, 



Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 
For You she wrought : Ye only can supply 
The life, the truth, the beauty : she confide* 
In that enjoyment n-hich with You abides, 
Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 
Thus far contented, tliat for You lier verse 
Shall lack not power the " meeting soul to 
pierce ! " 

W. Wordsworth. 



FISH-WOMEN.— ^ON LANDING AT CALAIS. 

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
The likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; 
But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
Above whose heads the tide so long hath 

rolled, 
The Dames resemble whom we here behold. 
How fearful were it down through opening 

waves 
To sink, and meet them in their fretted 

caves. 
Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old. 
And shrill and fierce in accent ! — Fear it not : 
For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; 
Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; 
Their voices into liquid music swell. 
Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot, 
The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nympiis 

dwell I 

II. 

BRUGES. 

Bruges I saw attired with golden light 
iStreamed from the west) as with a robe of 

power : 
The splendor fled ; and now the sunless 

hour, 
That, slowly making way for peaceful niglit, 
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 



Offers the beauty, the magnificence, 

And sober graces, left her for defence 

Against the injuries of time, the spite 

Of fortune, and the desolating sto! ms 

Of future war. Advance not — spare to hide. 

O gentle Power of darkness ! these milci 

hues ; 
Obscure not yet these silent avenues 
Of stateliest architecture, wliere the Forns 
Of nun-hlce females, with sc*t motion, 

glide ; 



The Spirit of Antiquity— enshrined 
In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 
In picture, speaking witli heroic tongue. 
And with devout solemnities entwined — 
Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind ■ 
Hence Forms that glide with swan-like easa 

along. 
Hence motions, even amid the vulgar 

throng. 
To an harmon'ous decency confined 
As if the streets were consecrated ground, 
The city one vast temple, dedicate 
To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
Tt) social cares fr m jarring passion?: freedj 
A deeper peace than that m deserts found 1 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



293 



IV. 

INCIDENT AT BRUGES 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath tied , 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feei, 

The grass-grown pavement tread 
There heard we, haltmg in the shade 

Flung from h Convent-tower, 
A harp tiiat tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was tit lor some gay throng 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song 
When silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seemed doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for Ent^Ush words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve , 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quivered and seemed almost to heave. 

Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting sun 

Showed little oPhis state ; 
And, if the glory reached the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly born. 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad IS thy doom, self-S(jlaced dove, 

Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 

And opening life to thee? 

Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side , 
Less tribute could she pay than this. 

Borne gayly oVr the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty ? 



AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATER- 
LOO 

^ WINGED Goddess— clothed in vesture 

wrought 
1)1 rainbow colors ; One whose port was 

bold. 
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely 

hold 



The glittering crowns and garlands which it 

brought — 
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 
She vanished ; leaving prosoect blank and 

cold 
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us 

rolled 
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot, 
And monuments that soon must disappears 
Vet a dread local recompense we found ; 
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot- 

zeal 
Sank m our hearts, we felt as men should 

feel 
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage 

near, 
And horror breathing from the silent 

ground ! 



BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy 

choose ? 
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and 

plains, 
War's favorite playground, are with crimson 

stains 
Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ? 
The Morn, that now, along the silver 

Meuse, 
Si)reading. her peaceful ensigns, calls the 

swains 
To tend their silent boats and ringing wains. 
Or strip the bow whose mellow fruit 

bestrews 
The ripening corn beneath it. As mine 

eyes 
Turn from the fortified and threatening hill. 
How sweet the prospect of yon watery 

glade. 
With its gray rocks clustering in pensive 

shade — 
That, shaped like old monastic turrets, r'se 
l'"rom the smooth meadow-ground, serene 

and still ! 

VII. 

aix-la-chapelle. 
Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 
That wc approached the Seat of Charle* 

maine .'' 
To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
That faith which no devotion may renew I 
Why does tiiis puny Church present to view 
Her feeble columns? and that scanty ciiair ! 
This sword that one of our weak times 

mi^ht wear I 



294 



POEMS LF THE IMAGINATION: 



Objects of false pretence, or meanly tri',e ! 
11 from a traveller's fortune I might clami 
A palpable memorial of that day, 
Then would I seek the Pyrenean Ikeach 
That Roland clove with huge two-handed 

sway. 
\nd to the enormous labor left his name, 
Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent 

bleach. 



IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 

O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
This temple — Angels governed by a plan 
Tims far pursued (how gloriously!) by 

Man, 
Studious that He might not disdain the seat 
\Vho dwells in heaven ! But that aspiring 

heat 
Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose 

gorgeous wings 
And splendid asi>ect yon cmblazonings 
IJut faintly picture, 'twere an oflice meet 
For you on these unfinished shafts to try 
The midnight virtues of your liarmony : — 
This vast design might tempt you to repeat 
Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground 
Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound 
Of penetrating hearts and voices sweet ! 

IX. 

IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE RANKS OF 
THE RHINE 

Amid this dance of object sadness steals 
O'er the defrauded heart— while sweeping 

by, 

As in a fit of Thespian jollity, 

Beneath her vine-leat crown the green 

Earth reels : 
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
J'he venerable pageantry of Time, 
Fach beetling rampart, and each tower 

sublime, 
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
Ot lurking cloistral arch, through trees 

espied 
Near the brighi River's edge. Yet why 

repine ? 
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze — 
Such sweet way faring — of life's spring the 

pride, 
Her summer's faithful joy — that still is 

mine. 
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days. 



X. 

HYMN, 

FOR THE BOATMEN. AS THEY APPROACH 
THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OK 
HEIDELBERG. 

Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
By the current swept along , 

Loud its threatemngs — let them not 
Drown the music of a song 

Breathed thy mercy to implore. 

Where these troubled waters roar ! 

Saviour, for our warning, seen 
Bleeding on that precious Rood ; 

If, while through the meadows green 
Gently wound the peaceful flood, 

We forgot Thee, do not Thou 

Disregard thy Suppliants now 1 

Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
Watching o'er the River'^ bed, 

Fling the shadow of thy power, 
Else we sleep among the dead ; 

Thou who trod'st the billowy sea. 

Shield us in our jeopardy ! 

Guide our Bark among the waves; 

Through the rocks our passage 
smooth ; 
Where the whirlpool frets and raves 

Let thy love its anger soothe ; 
All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
Miserere Domine ! 



the source OF THE DANUBE. 

Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
Doth Danube spring to life ! Tlie wander- 
ing Stream 
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's 

gleam 
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
Slips Irom his prison walls , and Fancy, 

free 
To follow in his track of silver light, 
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's 

Hight 
Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy 

sea 
Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to 

meet 
In conflict ; whose rough winds forgot their 

jars 
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece ; 
When the first Ship sailed for the Golde0 

Fleece — 



POEMS OF THE /MAG/NATfON. 



295 



A^RGO — exalted for that darin<;; feat 
To fix in heaven her shape distinct with 
stars. 



ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, 
LAUTER-BRUNNEN 

Utthrei) by whom, or ho^ inspired— 

desi2;ned 
For what strange service, does this concert 

rcacli 
Our ears, and near the dwelHngs of man- 
kind, 
Mid fields familiarized to human speech? — 
No Mermaids vvaible — to allay the wind 
Driving some vessel toward a dangerous 

beach— 
More thrilling melodies. Witch answering 

Witch. 
To chant a love-spell, never intertwined 
Notes slinll and wild witii art more musical ■ 
Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
Or Idleness in tatters mendicant 
The strain should flow— free Fancy to 

enthral, 
And with regret and useless pity haunt 
This bold, this bright, this sky-born 

Waterfall ! 

XIII. 
THE FALL OF THE AAR— HANDEC. 

From the fierce aspect of this River, 

throwing 
His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, 
r-ack in astonishment and tear we shrink : 
lUit. gradually a calmer look bestowing, 
I'lowers we espy beside the torrent growing ; 
I'"lowers that peep forth from many a cleft 

and cliinv:. 
And, from t!ie whirlwind of his anger, drink 
lines ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : 
They suck— from breath tliat, threatening 

to destroy, 
\> more beniiinant than the dewy eve — 
li '.uity, and life, and motions as of joy : 
Kur doubt but lit to whom you Pine-trees 

nod 
Then- heads in sign of worship, Nature's 

';nd, 
Tkkesc nunibler adorations will receive 



XIV. 

MEMORIAL, 

NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 
THUN. 

" DEM 
ANDENKEy 
MEINES FREU\'DES 
ALOYS KEDING 
MDCCLXVIli:' 
Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Cap- 
tain-Generai of tlie Swiss forces, which, with 
a courage and perseverance worthy of the 
cause, opposed the Hagitious and too success- 
ful attempt of Ijuonaparte to subjugaie tlicir 
country. 

Around a wild and woody hill 

A gravelled pathway treading. 

We reached a votive Stone that bears 

The name of Aloys Reding. 

W'ell ludgcd the Friend wlio placed It 

there 
For silence and protection ; 
And haply with a finer care 
Of dutiful affection. 
The Sun regards it from the West , 
And, while in summer glory 
He sets, his sinking yields a type 
Of that pathetic story : 
And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
AiTiid the grove to linger, 
Till all IS dim, save this bright Stont 
Touched by his golden finger. 

XV 
composed in ode of THE CATHOLIC 

cantons. 

Doom F.I) as wc are our native dust 
'l"o wet witii many a bitter shower, 
It ill befits us to disdain 
The altar, to deride the fane, 
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
To win a happier hour. 

I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
Upon some knee worn cell to gaze : 
Hail to the firm unmoving cross. 
Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
And to the chapel far withdrawn. 
That lurks by lonely ways ! 

Where'er we roam — along tlie brink 
Of Rhine — or by the sweeping I'o, 
Through Alpine vale, or champain w'dc, 
Whate'er we look on, at our side 
Be Charity I— to bid us think, 
And feel, if wc would know. 



296 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



AFTER-THOUGHT. 

Oh Life ! without thy checkered scene 
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
Success and failure, could a ground 
For magnanimity be found ; 
For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene ? 
Or whence could virtue flow ? 

Pain entered through a ghastly breach 
Nor while sin lasts must effort cease ; 
Heaven upon earth's an empty boast ; 
Hut, for the bovvers of Eden lost, 
Mercy has placed within our reach 
A portion of God's peace. 

XVII. 
SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 

" What know we of the Blest above 
But that tiiey smg and that they love?" 
Yet, if they ever did inspire 
A mortal hynm, or shaped the choir, 
Now, where those harvest Damsels float 
Homeward m their rugged Boat, 
(While all the ruffling winds are fled— 
Each slumbermg on some mountain's head) 
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 
Been ftlt, that influence is displayed. 
Pupils ot Heaven, in order stand 
The rustic Maidens, every hand 
U«)on a Sister's shoulder laid, — 
'I'o chant, as glides the boat along 
A simple, but a touching, song ; 
To chant, as Angels do aljove, 
The melodies of Peace in love ! 



ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS. 

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
The work of Fancy from her willing hands ; 
And such a beautiful creation makes 
As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
When first mine eyes beheld that famous 

Hill 
Tlie sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
With intermingling motions .soft and still, 
Hung round its top, on wings that changed 

their hues at will. 

Clouds do not namo those "\''isitants ; they 

were 
The very Angels whose authentic lays, 



Sung from that heavenly ground in middle 

air, 
Made known the spot where piety should 

raise 
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
Resplendent Apparition I if in vain 
My ears did listen, 'twas enougli to gaze ; 
And watch the slow dti)arture of the train, 
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted 

to detain. 



OUR lady of the snow. 

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
Than fairest Star, upon the height 
Of thy own mountain,* set to keep 
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
Wiiat eye can look upon thy shrine 
Untroubled at the sight.? 

These crowded offerings as the) hang 

In sign of misery relieved^ 

Even these, without intent of theirs, 

Report of comfortlv^ss despairs, 

Of many a deep and cureless pang 

And confidence deceived. 

To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
As to a common centre, tend 
All sufferers that no more rely 
On mortal succor — all who sigh 
And pine, of human hope bereft, 
Nor wish for earthly friend. 

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild ! 
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow, 
Not only from the dreary strife 
Of winter, but the storms of life, 
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, 
Our Lady of the Snow. 

Even for the Man who stops not here, 

Hut down the irriguous valley hies. 

Thy very name, O Lady ! flings. 

O'er blooming fields and gushing spnngs 

A tender sense of shadowy fear, 

And chastening sympathies ! 

Nor falls that intermingling shade 
To summer-gladsomcness unkind : 
It chastens only to requite 
With gleams of fresher, purer, light; 
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
Mrre sweetly breathes the wind. 



* Mount Righi. 



re EMS O/f- THE TMACINATION'. 



29' 



But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
A verdant path before us lies ; 
Clear shines the glorious sun above ; 
Then give free course to joy and love, 
Deeming the evil of the day 
Sufticient for the wise. 



EFFUSION, 

IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWEU 
OF TELL, AT ALTORF. 

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew 
the Linden Tree against which his Son is said 
to have been placed, when the P'ather's 
archery was pnt to proof under circums-.":nces 
so famous in Swiss Story. 

What though the Italian pencil wrought 

not here, 
Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
On Marathonian valor, yet the tear 
Sfrings forth in presence of this gaudy 

show, 
While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors 

old. 
Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go 
Home-ward or school- ward, ape what e 

behold ; 
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy 

bold ! 

And when that calm Spectatress from on 

high 
Looks down — the bright and solitary Moon, 
Who never gazes but to beautify ; 
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of 

noon 
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls ; 
Then might the passing Monk receive a 

boon 
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured 

walls, 
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing 

lustre falls. 
Hdw blest the souls who when their trials 

come 
Yield not to terror or despondency, 
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal 

doom, 
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he 
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree : 
He quakes not like the timiil forest game. 
But smiles — Uie hesitating shaft to free ; 



Assured that Heaven its justice will pro- 
claim, 
And to his Father give its own unerring 
aim. 

XXI. 
the town OF SCHWYTZ. 

By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly 

bred 
To dignity— in thee, O Schwytz ! are seen 
The genuine features of the golden mean ; 
Equality by Prudence governed. 
Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead ; 
And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, 

serene 
As that of the sweet fields and meadows 

green 
In unambitious compass round thee spread. 
Majestic 15erne, high on her guardian 

steep, 
Holding a central station of command. 
Might well be styled this noble body's 

Head; 
Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrench- 
ments deep, 
Its Heart ; and ever may the heroic Land 
Jhy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedon 

keep ! * 

XXII. 

ON hearing the"ranz des vaches" 

ON the top of the pass OF ST. 
GOT HARD. 

I LISTEN — but no faculty of mine 
Avails those modulations to detect, 
Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swis 

affect 
With tendcrest passion ; leaving him topini 
(So fame rejiorts) and die, — his sweet 

brcath'd kine 
Remembering, and green Alpine pastures 

decked 
With venial flowers. Yet may w^» not 

reject 
The tale as fabulous. — Here while I recline, 
Mindful how others by this simple Strain 
Are moved, for me — upon this Mountai" 

named 
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence- 
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, 
Yield to the Music's touching influence j 
And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 



* Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of 
the French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for 
the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon 
the frontiers of this small Carton, to impose 
upon it the laws of their governors. 



298 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTKATlOiV. 



XXIII. 

FORT FUENTES. 



Tlie Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of 
a mcKy L'liiiiienct; that rises from the plain at 
the heail nf the Like of L'omo.commandhig views 
up the Vaiteliiie, and toward the town of 
ClnaveiMia. The prospect in tlie latter direc- 
tion is characterized by melanclioly sublimity. 
We rejoiced at being favored with a distinct 
view of tiiose Alpine heiglus ; not, as we had 
expected from the breaking up of the storm, 
steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion 
with clouds floating or stationary— scatterings 
fiom heaven. The ruin is interesting botli in 
mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon 
eiaborately-sciili>tured marble lying on the 
ground, records that the Fort had been erected 
by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the 
reign of Philip the Third ; and the Chapel, 
about twenty years after, by one of his Descend- 
ants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet 
ctanding, and a considerable part of the Chapel 
walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of 
the pavement, and we could see no trace of 
altar or image ; but everywhere something to 
rernind one of former splendor, and of devas- 
tation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed 
abundance of wild vines intermingled with 
bushes ; near the ruins were some ill tended, 
but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and 
fragments of tlie pile, are alike covered or 
adorned with a variety of flowers, among which 
the rose-colored pink was growing in great 
beauty. While descending, we discovered on 
the ground, apart from the jiath, and at a con- 
siderable distance from the ruined Chapel, a 
stitue of a Child in pure white marble, unin- 
jured by the explosion that had driven it so far 
down the hill. *' How little," we exclaimed, 
"ifre these things valued here! Could we 
but transport this pretty image to our own gar- 
den ! " — Yet It seemed it would have been a 
pity any one should remove it from its couch in 
tlie wilderness, which may be its own for hun- 
dreds of years. — Extract from Jounial. 

Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's 
sulphurous blast, 

T'lis swoc^t-visaged Cherub of Parian stone 
So Ur from the holy enclosure was cast. 

To couch in this thiclcet of brambles alone . 



To rest where the lizard may bask in the 
palm 
Of his half-open hand pure from blemish 
or speck ; 
And the green, gilded snake, without troub- 
ling the calm 
Of the beautiful countenance, twine round 
his neck ; 



Where haply (kind service to Piety due !) 
When winter the grove of its mantle be 
reaves, 
Some bird (like our own honored redbreast 5 
may strew 
The desolate Slumberer with moss and 
with leaves. 

Fuentes once harbored the good and the 
brave. 
Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure 
unknown ; 
Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
While the thrill of her fifes thro' the 
mountains was blown : 

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless 
ascent ; — 
O silence of Nature, how deep is thy 
sway. 
When the whirlwind of human destruction 
is spent, 
Our tumults appeased, and our strifes 
passed away ! 

XXIV. 

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN 
FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. 

This Church was almost destroyed by light- 
ning a few years ago, but the altar and the 
image of the Patron Saint were untouched. 
The Mount, upon the summit of which the 
Church is feuilt, stands amid the intricacies of 
the Lake of Lugano ; and is, from a hundred 
points of view, its principal ornament, rising 
to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, 
nearly perpendicular. The accent is toilsome ; 
but the traveller who |ierforms it will be amply 
rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and 
dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of 
view contrasted with sea-like extent of plain 
fading into the sky ; and this again, in an 
opposite quarter, with an horizon of the lofti< st 
and boldest Alps — unite in composing a p.os- 
pect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, 
and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in 
Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, com- 
mands. 

Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage. 
Guarded by lone San Salvador , 
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore. 
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
But ne'er to human rage ! 

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
To rest the universal Lord : 
Why leap the fountain's from their celll 
Where everlasting Bounty dwells ?— 



POEMS OF THE IMAGlNAJrON". 



299 



That, while the Creature is sustained, 
His God may be adored. 

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times- 
Let all remind the soul of heaven ; 
Our slack devotion needs them all ; 
And P^aith — so soft of sense the thrall, 
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
May hope to be forgiven. 

Glory, and patriotic Love, 

And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 

Which men call Earth," have yearned to 

seek, 
Associate with the simply meek, 
Religion in the sainted grove, 
A:ul in the hallowed grot. 

Thither, in time of adverse shocks. 
Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
Did mighty Tell repair of old — 
A H„M-o cast in Nature's mould. 
Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
And of the ancient hills ! 

Hc^ too, of battle martyrs chief ! 
Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
For victory shaped an open space. 
By gathering with a wide embrace, 
Into his single breast, a sheaf 
Of fatal Austrian spears.* 



THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE 
SWISS GOATHERD. 

PART L 

I. 

Now that the farewell tear is dried. 
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! 
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
The wages of tiiy travel, joy ! 
vVhether for London hound — to trill 
Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; 
Or on thy head to poise a show 
Of Images m set*mly row ; 
The graceful lorm of milk white Steed, 
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
9r through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
The sightless Milton, with his hair 
Around his placid temples curled ; 
And Shakspeare at his side — a freight, 
If clay couki think and mind were weight. 
For him who bore the world ! 



* Arnold Winkehied, at the battle of Sem- 
pach, biuke au Austrian phalanx in this inauner. 



Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
The wages of thy travel, joy I 



But thou, perhaps, (alert as free 
Though serving sage philosophy) 
Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
A Vender of the well-wrought Scale, 
Whose sentient tube instructs to- time 
A purpose to a fickle clime : 
Whether thou choose this useful part, 
Or minister to finer art, 
Though robbed of many a cherished drean^ 
.^nd crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
Wliat stirring wonders wilt thou see 
In the proud Isle of liberty ! 
Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
With thoughts which no delights can chase, 
Recall a Sister's last embrace. 
His Mother's neck entwine ; 
Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
That would have loved the bright-haired 
Boy! 



My Song, encouraged by the grace 

That beams from his ingenious face, 

For this Adventurer scruples not 

To prophecy a golden lot ; 

Due recompense, and safe return 

To CoMo's steeps — his happy bourne ! 

Where he, aloft in garden glade. 

Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 

The towering maize, and prop the twig 

That ill supports the luscious fig ; 

Or feed his eye in path sun-proof 

With purple of the trellis-roof. 

That through the jealous leaves escapes 

From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. 

— Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 

To share his wanderings ! him whose look 

Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 

So touchingly he smiled — 

As with a rapture caught from heaven — 

For unasked alms in pity given 



PART II. 



With nodding plumes, and lightly drest 
Like foresters in leaf-green vest. 
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 
For Tell's dread archery renowned, 
Before the target stood — to claim 
The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 



300 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Loud was t!ie rifle-gun's report — 
A sta'^tling tliunder quick and short ! 
But, flying through the heights around, 
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 
Of hearts and hands alike " prepared 
The treasures they enjoy to guard ! " 
And, if there be a favored hour 
Wiien Heroes are allowed to quit 
The tomb-, and on thp clouds to sit 
With tutelary power, 
On their Descendants shedding grace- 
This was tlie hour, and that the place. 



But Truth inspired the Bards of old 
When of an iron age they told, 
Which to unequal laws gave birth. 
And drove Astraea from the earth. 
— A gentle Boy (perchance with blood 
As noble as tlie best endued, 
But seemingly a Thing despised ; 
Even by the sun and air unprized ; 
Eor not a tinge or flowery streak 
Appeared upon his tender cheek) 
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, 
Apart, beside his silent goats, 
Sate watching in a forest shed, 
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head ; 
Mute as the snow upon the iiill, 
And, as the saint he prays to, still. 
Ah, what avails heroic deed ? 
WJKit liberty ? if no defence 
Be won for feeble Innocence. 
Father of all ! though wilful Manhood read 
His punishment in soul-distress, 
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessed- 
ness. 

XXVI. 

THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA 
VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OK THE 
CONVENT OE MARIA DELLA GRAZIA — 
MILAN. 

Tho' searching damps and many an envious 

flaw 
Have marred this Work ; the calm ethereal 

grace, 
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face. 
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe 
The Elements ; as they do melt and thaw 
The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
Ot disobedience to the primal law. 
The annunciation of the dreadful truth 



Made to the Twelve survives : lip, forehead, 

cheek. 
And hand reposing on the board in ruth ■ 
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek 
Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
A labor worthy of eternal youth ! 

XXVII. 

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1S2O- 

High on her speculative tower 
Stood science waiting for the hour 
When Sol was destined to endure 
TJiat darkening of his radiant face 
Which Superstition strove to chase, 
Brewhile, with rites impure. 

Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
Through regions fair as Paradise 
We gaily passed,— till Nature wrought 
A silent and unlooked-for change. 
That checked the desultory range 
Of joy and sprightly thought. 

Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
The waves danced round us as before, 
As lightly, though of altered hue, 
Mid recent coolness, such as falls. 
At noontide from umbrageous walls 
I'hat screen the morning dew. 

No vapor stretched its wings ; no cloud 

(Jast fast or near a murky shroud ; 

The sky an azure field displayed ; 

'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, 

( )f all its sparkling rays disarmed, 

And as in slumber laid, — 

Or something night and day between. 
Like moonshine — but the hue was greer 
Still moonshine, without shadow, spreat 
On jutting rock, and curved shore, 
WHiere gazed the peasant from his dooi 
And on the mountain's head. 

It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay 
Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
The solemnizing veil was drawn 
O'er villas, terraces, and towers ; 
To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
Porlezza's verdant lawn. 

But Fancy with the speed of fire 
Hath past to Milan's loftiest spire. 
And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
Of Figures human and divine. 
White as the snows of Appenine 
Indurated by frost. 



POdMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



3o» 



Awe-stricken she bcholils tlie array 
That guards the Temple night and day ; 
Angels she sees — that might from licaven 

have flown, 
And Virgin-saints, wlio not in \ lin 
Have striven by purity to gain 
The beatific crown — 

Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
Each narrowing aLove each ;— the wings, 
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, 
The starry zone of sovereign heiglit — 
All steeped in this portentous light ! 
All suffering dim eclipse ! 

Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
These perishable spheres have wrought 
May with that issue be compared) 
Throngs of celestial visages, 
Darkening like water in the breeze, 
A holy sadness shared, 

Lo ! while I speak, the laboring Sun 
His glad deliverance has begun : 
Tlie cypress waves her sombre plume 
More cheerily ; and town and tower, 
The vineyard and the olive bower, 
Their lustre re-assume ! 

Ye, who guard and grace my home 
While in far-distant lands we roam. 

What countenance hath this Day put on for 

you ? 
While we looked round with favored eyes, 
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
And mountains from your view ? 

Or was it given you to behold 

Like vision, pensive thought not cold. 

From the smooth breast oif gay Windermere ? 

Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 

Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale,* 

Helvellyn's brow severe ? 

1 ask in vain — and know far less 
M sickness, sorrow, or distress 

Have spared my Dwelling to this hour ; • 
Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove 
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
And all-controlling power. 

XXVIII. 
THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 



How blest the Maid whose heart-^yet free 
From Love's uneasy sovereignty — 
Beats with a fancv running high, 
Her simple cares to magni